
/. A- 12. 



A Holiday in Bed 

And other Sketches. 



BY 

J. NI. BARRIB, 

AUTHOR OF 

The Little Minister* A Window in Thrums. 

Auld Licht Idylls, etc. 



With a Short Biographical Sketch of the author 



NEW YORK PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
NEW YORK. 



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A^ 



.O" 






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Copyrighted 1891, 
NEW YORK PUBIylSHING CO. 



•J 



PRESS AND BINDERY OF 

HISTORICAI. PUBLISHING CO., 
PHILADELPHIA, PA. 



CONTENTS. 



James Matthkw Barrik, 15 

A HoiyiDAY IN Bed, 23 

^ Life in a Country Manse, 37 

Life in a Country Manse — A Wedding in 

a Smiddy, 49 

>^ A PowERFui< Drug, 61 

> Every Man His own Doctor, 73 

Gretna Green Revisited, 87*^ 

My Favorite Authoress, iii\/ 

y^ The Captain of the Schooi., 121 

Thoughtfui< Boys Make Thoughtfui< Men, 131 v 

Ii*> 145 

To the INF1.UENZA, 153 V 

Four-in-Hand Novewsts, 161^ 

Rules on Carving, 173 ^ 

On Running After a Hat, 179 



JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE. 



JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE was born at 
Kirriemuir, Forfarshire, on May 9, i860. 
Kirriemuir, as soberly stated by the Encyclo- 
pcedia Britannica^ is **a borough of barony and a 
market town of Forfarshire, Scotland, beautifully 
situated on an eminence above the glen through 
which the Gairie flows. It lies about five miles 
northwest of Forfar, and about sixty-two miles 
north of Edinburgh. The special industry of the 
town is linen weaving, for which large power-loom 
factories have recently been built.'* Mr. Barrie 
has made his birthplace famous as Thrums, after 
hesitating for a little between that name and Whins, 
which is the word used in the earliest Auld I^icht 
sketches. 

Only a part of Mr. Barriers boyhood was spent 
in Kirriemuir. At an early age he went to Dum- 
fries, where his brother was inspector of schools. 
He was a pupil in the Dumfries Academy. At that 
time Thomas Carlyle was a not unfrequent visitor 

15 



l6 JAM^ MATTHKW BARRI^. 

to the town, where his sister, Mrs. Aitken, and his 
friend, the venerable poet editor Thomas Aird, 
were then living. 

Carlyle is the only author by whom Mr. Barrie 
thinks he has been influenced. The Carlyle fever 
did not last very long, but was acute for a time. 
He fervently defended his master against the 
innumerable critics called into activity by Mr. 
Fronde's biography. Apart from this, Dumfries 
seems to have left no very definite mark on his 
mind. The only one of his teachers who im- 
pressed him was Dr. Cranstoun, the accomplished 
translator from the Latin poets, and he rather 
indirectly than directly. In the Dumfries papers 
Mr. Barrie inaugurated his literary career by con- 
tributing accounts of cricket matches and letters, 
signed '* Paterfamilias,'' urging the desirability of 
pupils having longer holidays. He was the idlest 
of schoolboys, and seldom opened his books except 
to draw pictures on them. 

At the age of eighteen, Mr. Barrie entered Edin- 
burgh University. His brother had studied in 
Aberdeen with another famous native of Kirrie- 
muir, Dr. Alexander Whyte, of Free St. George's, 
Edinburgh. At Aberdeen you could live much 



JAMKS MATTHKW BARRIK. 17 

more cheaply, also it was easier there to get a burs- 
ary, enough to keep soul and body together till an 
income could be earned. The struggles and tri- 
umphs of Aberdeen students greatly impressed Mr. 
Barrie, who has often repeated the story thus told 
in the Nottingharn Journal : — 

*'I knew three undergraduates who lodged to- 
gether in a dreary house at the top of a dreary 
street, two of whom used to study until two in the 
morning, while the third slept. When they shut 
up their books they woke number three, who arose, 
dressed, and studied till breakfast time. Among 
the many advantages of this arrangement, the chief 
was that, as they were dreadfully poor, one bed did 
for the three. Two of them occupied it at one 
time, and the third at another. Terrible priva- 
tions ? Frightful destitution ? Not a bit of it. The 
Millennium was in those days. If life was at the 
top of a hundred^ steps, if students occasionally 
died of hunger and hard work combined, if the 
midnight oil only burned to show a ghastly face 
* weary and worn,' if lodgings were cheap and dirty, 
and dinners few and far between, life was still real 
and earnest, in many cases it did not turn out an 

empty dream.'' 
2 



1 8 jam:SS matthkw b arris. 

In 1882 he graduated, and was for some montlis 
in Edinburgh doing nothing in particular. In the 
meantime he saw an advertisement asking for a 
leader writer to an English provincial paper. The 
salary offered was three guineas a week. He made 
application for this, and found himself, in February, 
1883, installed as leader writer to the Nottingham 
Jottmal. He was not editor, the work of arrang- 
ing the paper being in other hands ; but he was 
allowed to write as much as he pleased, and pract- 
ically what he pleased. 

During the last months of his stay in Notting- 
ham, Mr. Barrie had begun to send articles to the 
London papers. The first of these was published 
by Mr. Stead, then editing the Pall Mall Gazette, 

In March, 1888, a much more important book, 
**Auld lyicht Idyls,'* was published. When Mr. 
Barrie came up to I^ondon he had letters of intro- 
duction from Professor Masson to an eminent pub- 
lisher, and to Mr. John Morley. He took his 
'*Auld lyicht Idyls'' to the publisher, and was 
told that, although they were pleasant reading, 
they would never be successful as a book. Mr. 
Morley, then editor of Macmillan^ asked him to 
send a list of subjects on which he was willing to 



JAM^ MAl^HKW BARRIK. 1 9 

write. The request was complied with, but the 
subjects were returned by Mr. Morley with the 
singularly uncharacteristic comment that they were 
not sufficiently up to date. Mr. Morley, who has 
since read with great admiration all Mr. Barrie's 
works, was much astonished at having this brought 
to his rem.embrance the other day. 

*' When a Man's Single" was published in Sep- 
tember, 18885 dedicated to W. Robertson NicoU. 
The story was originally published in The British 
Weekly^ but, as his manner is, Mr. Barrie made 
great changes in revising it for publication. It 
was well received, and was pronounced by the 
Daily News as ' * Perhaps the best single volume 
novel of the j^ear." It is not at all autobiograph- 
ical, though it gives the author's impressions of 
journalistic life in Nottingham and lyondon. Per- 
haps the best parts of it are those devoted to 
Thrums, of which George Meredith expressed 
special admiration. 

Mr. Barrie's greatest book, however, was yet to 
come. * ' A Window in Thrums ' ' was published 
in May, 1889. It contained articles contributed to 
the National Observer^ The British Weekly^ and 
the St, James'' s Gazette^ along with new matter. 



20 JAMKS MATTHEW BARRIK. 

It is not too mucli to say that it was received with 
one burst of acclamation. It has been the most 
popular of the author's works, and it is hard to 
conceive how he can surpass certain parts of it. It 
has found admirers among all classes. 

''My Lady Nicotine," reprinted from the SL 
James^ s Gazette^ was published in April, 1890, and 
a second edition appeared in September, 1890, and 
although issued later than ' 'A Window in Thrums, ' ' 
it is really in point of time almost the first of the 
author's books. 

In January, 1891, Mr. Barrie commenced a story 
in Good Words, entitled ''The Uttle Minister," 
v/hich has since been issued in book form, and is 
acknowledged to be his best book. 



A HOLIDAY IN BED. 



A HOLIDAY IN BED. 



NOW is the time for a real holiday. Take it in 
bed, if you are wise. 
People have tried a holiday in bed before now, 
and found it a failure, but that was because they 
were ignorant of the rules. They went to bed 
with the open intention of staying there, say, three 
days, and found to their surprise that each morning 
they wanted to get up. This was a novel experience 
to them, they flung about restlessly, and probably 
shortened their holiday. The proper thing is to 
take your holiday in bed with a vague intention of 
getting up in another quarter of an hour. The 
real pleasure of lying in bed after you are awake 
is largely due to the feeling that you ought to get 
up. To take another quarter of an hour then 
becomes a luxury. You are, in short, in the posi- 
tion of the man who dined on larks. Had he 
seen the hundreds that were ready for him, all set 
out on one monster dish, they would have turned 
his stomach ; but getting them two at a time, he 



24 A HOI.IDAY IN BKD. 

went on eating till all the larks were exhausted. 
His feeling of uncertainty as to whether these 
might not be his last two larks is your feeling that, 
perhaps, you will have to get up in a quarter of 
an hour. Deceive yourself in this way, and your 
holiday in bed will pass only too quickly. 

Sympathy is what all the world is craving for, 
and sympathy is what the ordinary holiday-maker 
never gets. How can we be expected to sympa- 
thize with you when we know you are ofif to Perth- 
shire to fish ? No ; we say we wish we were you, 
and forget that your holiday is sure to be a hollow 
mockery ; that your child will jam her finger in 
the railway carriage, and scream to the end of the 
journey ; that you will lose your luggage ; that the 
guard will notice your dog beneath the seat, and 
insist on its being paid for ; that you will be caught 
in a Scotch mist on the top of a mountain, and be 
put on gruel for a fortnight ; that your wife will 
fret herself into a fever about the way the servant, 
who has been left at home, is carrying on with her 
cousins, the milkman and the policeman ; and that 
you will be had up for trespassing. Yet, when you 
tell us you are off" to-morrow, we have never the 
sympathy to say, '* Poor fellow, I hope you'll pull 



A HOLIDAY IN BED. 2$ 

through somehow. " If it is an exhibition you go 
to gape at, we never picture you dragging your 
weary legs from one department to another, and 
w^ondering why your back is so sore. Should it 
be the seaside, we talk heartlessly to you about the 
*' briny,'' though we must know, if we would stop 
to think, that if there is one holiday more misera- 
ble than all the others, it is that spent at the sea- 
side, when you wander the weary beach and fling 
pebbles at the sea, and wonder how long it will be 
till dinner time. Were we to come down to see 
you, we would probably find you, not on the beach, 
but moving slowly through the village, looking in 
at the one milliner's window, or laboriously reading 
what the one grocer's labels say on the subject of pale 
ale, compressed beef, or vinegar. There was never 
an object that called aloud for sympathy more than 
you do, but you get not a jot of it. You should 
take the first train home and go to bed for three 
days. 

To enjoy your holiday in bed to the full, you 
should let it be vaguely understood that there is 
something amiss with you. Don't go into de- 
tails, for they are not necessary; and, besides, you 
want to be dreamy more or less, and the dreamy 



26 A HOI.IDAY IN B^D. 

state IS not consistent with a definite ailment. The 
moment one takes to bed he gets sympathy. He 
may be suffering from a tearing headache or a 
tooth that makes him cry out; but if he goes about 
his business, or even flops in a chair, true sympathy 
is denied him. lyct him take to bed with one of 
those illnesses of which he can say with accuracy 
that he is not quite certain what is the matter with 
him, and his wife, for instance, will want to bathe 
his brow. She must not be made too anxious. 
That would not only be cruel to her, but it would 
wake you from the dreamy state. She must simply 
see that you are ' ' not yourself ' ' Women have an 
idea that unless men are ''not themselves" they 
will not take to bed, and as a consequence your 
wife is tenderly thoughtful of you. Every little 
while she will ask you if you are feeling any better 
now, and you can reply, with the old regard for 
truth, that you are ' ' much about it. ' ' You may 
even (for your own pleasure) talk of getting up now, 
when she will earnestly urge you to stay in bed 
until you feel easier. You consent; indeed, you 
4re ready to do anything to please her. 

The ideal holiday in bed does not require the 
presence of a ministering angel in the room all 



A HOI.IDAY IN BKD. 2*J 

day. You frequently prefer to be alone, and point 
out to your wife that you cannot have her trifling 
with her health for your sake, and so she must go 
out for a walk. She is reluctant, but finally goes, 
protesting that you are the most unselfish of men, 
and only too good for her. This leaves a pleasant 
aroma behind it, for even when lying in bed, we 
like to feel that we are uncommonly fine fellows. 
After she has gone you get up cautiously, and, 
walking stealthily to the wardrobe, produce from 
the pocket of your great coat a good novel. A 
holiday in bed must be arranged for beforehand. 
With a gleam in your eye you slip back to bed, 
double your pillow to make it higher, and begin to 
read. You have only got to the fourth page, when 
you make a horrible discovery — namely, that the 
book is not cut. An experienced holiday-maker 
would have had it cut the night before, but this is 
your first real holiday, or perhaps you have been 
thoughtless. In any case you have now matter to 
think of. You are torn in two different ways. 
There is your coat on the floor with a knife in it, 
but you cannot reach the coat without getting up 
again. Ought you to get the knife or to give up 
reading ? Perhaps it takes a quarter of an hour to 



28 A HOWDAY IN BKD. 

decide tliis question, and you decide it by discover- 
ing a third course. Being a sort of an invalid, you 
have certain privileges which would be denied you 
if you were merely sitting in a chair in the agonies 
of neuralgia. One of the glorious privileges of a 
holiday in bed is that you are entitled to cut books 
with your fingers. So you cut the novel in this 
way, and read on. 

Those who have never tried it may fancy that 
there is a lack of incident in a holiday in bed. 
There could not be a more monstrous mistake. 
You are in the middle of a chapter, when suddenly 
you hear a step upon the stair. Your loving ears 
tell you that your wife has returned, and is hasten- 
ing to you. Now, what happens ? The book dis- 
appears beneath the pillow, and when she enters 
the room softly you are lying there with your eyes 
shut. This is not merely incident ; it is drama. 

What happens next depends on circumstances. 
She says in a low voice — 

' ' Are you feeling any easier now, John ? ' ' 

No answer. 

*' Oh, I believe he is sleeping.** 

Then she steals from the room, and you begin 
to read again. 



A HOI.IDAY IN BKD. 29 

During a holiday in bed one never thinks, of 
course, of analyzing his actions. If you had done 
so in this instance, you would have seen that you 
pretended sleep because you had got to an ex- 
citing passage. You love your wife, but, wife or 
no wife, you must see how the passage ends. 

Possibly the little scene plays differently, as 
thus — 

*'John, are you feeling any easier now?" 

No answer. 

* ' Are you asleep ? " 

No answer. 

*'What a pity! I don't want to waken him, 
and yet the fowl will be spoilt. ' ' 

**Is that you back, Marion?" 

*' Yes, dear ; I thought you were asleep.'' 

**No, only thinking." 

** You think too much, dear. I have cooked a 
chicken for you." 

"I have no appetite." « 

'* I'm so sorry, but I can give it to the children." 

' ' Oh, as it's cooked, you may as well bring it up. ' ' 

In that case the reason of your change of action 
is obvious. But why do you not let your wife 
know that you have been reading? This is 



30 A HOI.IDAY IN BED 

another matter tliat you never reason about. Per- 
haps, it is because of your craving for sympathy, 
and you fear that if you were seen enjoying a novel 
the sympathy would go. Or, perhaps, it is that a 
holiday in bed is never perfect without a secret. 
Monotony must be guarded against, and so long as 
you keep the book to yourself your holiday in bed 
is a healthy excitement. A stolen book (as we 
may call it) is like stolen fruit, sweeter than what 
you can devour openly. The boy enjoys his stolen 
apple, because at any moment he may have to slip 
it down the leg of his trousers, and pretend that he 
has merely climbed the tree to enjoy the scenery. 
You enjoy your book doubly because you feel that 
it is a forbidden pleasure. Or, do you conceal the 
book from your wife lest she should think that you 
are over-exerting yourself? She must not be made 
anxious on your account. Ah, that is it. 

People who pretend (for it must be pretence) that 
they enjoy their holiday in the country, explain 
that the hills or the sea gave them such an appetite. 
I could never myself feel the delight of being able 
to manage an extra herring for breakfast, but it 
should be pointed out that neither mountains nor 
oceans give you such an appetite as a holiday in 



A HOLIDAY IN BED. 3I 

bed. What makes people eat more anywhere is 
that they have nothing else to do, and in bed you 
have lots of time for meals. As for the quality of 
the food supplied, there is no comparison. In the 
Highlands it is ham and eggs all day till you 
sicken. At the seaside it is fish till the bones stick 
in your mouth. But in bed — oh, there you get 
something worth eating. You don't take three 
big meals a day, but twelve little ones, and each 
time it is something difierent from the last. There 
are delicacies for breakfast, for your four luncheons 
and your five dinners. You explain to your wife 
that you have lost your appetite, and she believes 
you, but at the same time she has the sense to 
hurry on your dinner. At the clatter of dishes 
(for which you have been lying listening) you raise 
your poor head, and say faintly: 

*' Really, Marion, I can't touch food.'* 

*' But this is nothing," she says, ^' only the wing 
of a partridge." 

You take a side glance at it, and see that there is 
also the other wing and the body and two legs. 
Your alarm thus dispelled, you say — 

*'I really can't." 

**But, dear, it is so beautifully cooked." 



32 A HOIJDAY IN BKD. 

** Yes ; but I have no appetite.'* 
*' But try to take it, John, for my sake.'' 
Then for her sake you say she can leave it on 
the chair, and perhaps you will just taste it. As 
soon as she has gone you devour that partridge, 
and when she comes back she has the sense to 
say — 

' ' Why, you have scarcely eaten anything. What 
could you take for supper ?' ' 

You say you can take nothing, but if she likes 
she can cook a large sole, only you won't be able 
to touch it. 

** Poor dear !" she says, *' your appetite has com- 
pletely gone," and then she rushes to the kitchen 
to cook the sole with her own hands. In half-an- 
hour she steals into your room with it, and then 
you (who have been wondering why she is such a 
time) start up protesting, 

** I hope, Marion, this is nothing for me." 
** Only the least little bit of a sole, dear." 
*' But I told you I could eat nothing." 
*' Well, this is nothing, it is so small." 
You look again, and see with relief that it is a 
large sole. 

*' I would much rather that you took it away." 



A HOLIDAY IN BKD. 33 



**But, dear- 



' ' I tell you I have no appetite. * ' 

' ' Of course I know that ; but how can you hope 
to preserve your strength if you ea.t so little ? You 
have had nothing all day. ' ' 

You glance at her face to see if she is in earnest, 
for you can remember three breakfasts, four lun- 
cheons, two dinners, and sandwiches between ; but 
evidently she is not jesting. Then you yield. 

"Oh, well, to keep my health up I may just put 
a fork into it." 

' ' Do, dear ; it will do you good, though you 
have no caring for it." 

Take a holiday in bed, if only to discover what 
an angel your wife is. 

There is only one thing to guard against. Never 
call it a holiday. Continue not to feel sure what 
is wrong with you, and to talk vaguely of getting 
up presently. Your wife will suggest calling in 
the doctor, but pooh-pooh him. Be firm on that 
point. The chances are that he won't understand 
your case. 



LIFE IN A COUNTRY 
MANSE. 



LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSE 



UP here among the heather (or nearly so) we 
are, in the opinion of tourists, a mere ham- 
let, though to ourselves we are at least a village. 
Englishmen call us a '^clachan" — though, truth 
to tell, we are not sure what that is. Just as 
Gulliver could not see the lyiliputians without 
stooping, these tourists may be looking for the 
clachan when they are in the middle of it, and 
knocking at one of its doors to ask how far they 
have yet to go till they reach it. To be honest, 
we are only five houses in a row (including the 
smiddy), with a Free Church Manse and a few 
farms here and there on the hillsides. 

So far as the rest of the world is concerned, we 
are blotted out with the first fall of snow. I sup- 
pose tourists scarcely give us a thought, save when 
they are here. I have heard them admiring our 
glen in August, and adding : 

* ' But what a place it must be in winter ! ' ' 

37 



38 I.IFE IN A COUNTRY MANSE. 

To this their friends reply, shivering : 



*'A hard life, indeed!" 



And the conversation ends with the comment : 
^' Don't call it life ; it is merely existence." 
Well, it would be dull, no doubt, for tourists up 
here in January, say, but I find the winter a pleas- 
ant change from summer. I am the minister, 
and though my heart sank when I was ' ' called, ' ' 
I rather enjoy the life now. I am the man whom 
the tourists pity most. 

''The others drawl through their lives," these 
tourists say, ' ' to the manner born ; but think of an 
educated man who has seen life spending his win- 
ters in such a place ! " 

" He can have no society." 
' ' lyct us hope the poor fellow is married. ' ' 
"Oh, he is sure to be. But married or single, I 
am certain I would go mad if I were in his 
shoes. ' ' 

Their comparison is thrown away. I am strong 
and hale. I enjoy the biting air, and I seldom 
carry an umbrella. I should perhaps go mad if I 
were in the Englishmen's shoes, glued to a stool 
all day, and feeling my road home through fog at 
night. And there is many an educated man who 



I.IFK IN A COUNTRY MANSE. 39 

envies me. Did not three times as many proba- 
tioners apply for a hearing when the church was 
vacant as could possibly be heard ? 

But how did I occupy my time ? the English 
gentlemen would say, if they had not forgotten me. 
What do the people do in winter ? 

No, I don't lie long in the mornings and doze on 
a sofa in the afternoon, and go to bed at 9 o'clock. 
When I was at college, where there is so much 
' ' life, ' ' I breakfasted frequently at ten ; but here, 
where time must (they say) hang heavy on my 
hands, I am up at seven. Though I am not a 
married man, no one has said openly that I am 
insane. Janet, my housekeeper and servant, has 
my breakfast of porridge and tea and ham ready 
by half-past seven sharp. You see the mornings 
are keen, and so, as I have no bed-room fire nor 
hot water, I dress much more quickly than I 
dressed at college. Six minutes I give myself, 
then Janet and I have prayers, and then follows 
my breakfast. What an appetite I have ! I am 
amazed to recall the student days, when I ' ' could 
not look at porridge," and thought a half-penny 
roll sufficient for two of us. 

Dreary pleasure, you say, breakfasting alone in a 



40 LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSK. 

half-furnished house, with the snow lying some 
feet deep outside and still monotonously falling. 
Do I forget the sound of my own voice between 
Monday and Saturday ? I should think not. Nor 
do I forget Janet' s voice. I have read somewhere 
that the Scotch are a very taciturn race, but Janet 
is far more Scotch than the haggis that is passed 
around at some lyondon dinners, and Janet is not a 
silent woman. The difficulty v/ith some servants 
is to get them to answer your summons, but my 
difficulty with Janet is to get her back to the 
kitchen. Her favorite position is at the door, 
which she keeps half open. One of her feet she 
twists round it, and there she stands, half out of 
the room and half in it. She has a good deal of 
gossip to tell me about those five houses that lie 
low, two hundred yards from the manse, and it 
must be admitted that I listen. Why not ? If one 
is interested in people he must gossip about them. 
You, in London, may not care in the least who 
your next door neighbor is, but you gossip about 
your brothers and sisters and aunts. Well, my 
people are as familiar to me as your brothers are to 
you, and, therefore, I say, ' ' Ah, indeed, ' ' when 
told that the smith is busy with the wheel of a 



LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSE. 4I 

certain farmer's cart, and "Dear me, is that so?" 
when Janet explains that William, the plonghman, 
has got Meggy, his wife, to cut his hair. Meggy 
has cut my own hair. She puts a bowl on my 
head and clips away everything that it does not 
cover. So I would miss Janet if slie were gone, 
and her tongue is as enlivening as a strong ticking 
clock. No doubt there are times when, if I were 
not a minister, I might fling something soft at her. 
She shows to least advantage when I have visitors, 
and even in winter I have a man to dinner now and 
again. Then I realize that Janet does not know 
her place. While we are dining she hovers in the 
vicinity. If she is not pretending to put the room 
to rights, she is in her fortified position at the 
door ; and if she is not at the door she is imme- 
diately behind it. Her passion is to help in the 
conversation. As she brings in the potatoes she 
answers the last remark my guest addressed to me, 
and if I am too quick for her she explains away my 
answer, or modifies it, or signifies her approval of 
it. Then I try to be dignified and to show Janet 
her place. If I catch her eye I frown, but such 
opportunities are rare, for it is the guest on whom 
she concentrates herself. She even tells him, in 



42 I,IFK IN A COUNTRY MANSK. 

my presence, little things about myself which I 
would prefer to keep to myself. The impression 
conveyed by her is that I confide everything to 
her. When my guest remarks that I am becoming 
a hardened bachelor, and I hint that it is because 
the ladies do not give me a chance, Janet breaks 
in with — 

" Oh, deed it's a wonder he wasn't married long 
since, but the one he wanted wouldn't have him^ 
and the ones that v/ant him he won't take. He's 
an ill man to please. ' ' 

" Ah, Janet," the guest may say (for he enjoys 
her interference more than I do), ' ' you make him 
so comfortable that you spoil him." 

" Maybe," says Janet, " but it took me years to 
learn how to manage him. ' ' 

" Does he need to be managed? " 

* ' I never knew a man that didna. ' ' 

Then they get Janet to tell them all my little 
* ' tantrums ' ' (as she calls them), and she holds 
forth on my habit of mislaying my hat and then 
blaming her, or on how I hate rice pudding, or on 
the way I have worn the carpet by walking up and 
down the floor when I would be more comfortable 
in a chair. Now and again I have wound myself 



I.IFK IN A COUNTRY M ANSIS . 43 

Up to the point of reproving Janet when the guest 
had gone, but the result is that she tells her select 
friends how "quick in the temper" I am. So 
Janet must remain as she has grown and it is grati- 
fying to me (though don't let on) to know that she 
turns up her nose at every other minister who 
preaches in my church. Janet is always afraid 
when I go off for a holiday that the congregations 
in the big towns will ' ' snap me up. " It is pleas- 
ant to feel that she has this opinion of me, though 
I know that the large congregations do not share it. 
Who are my winter visitors ? The chief of them 
is the doctor. We have no doctor, of course, up 
here, and this one has to come twelve miles to us. 
He is rather melancholy when we send for him ; 
but he wastes no time in coming, though he may 
not have had his clothes off for twenty -four hours, 
and is well aware that we cannot pay big fees. 
Several times he has had to remain with me all 
night, and once he was snowed up here for a week. 
At times, too, he drives so far on his way to us and 
then has to turn back because the gig sticks on the 
heavy roads. He is only a doctor in a small coun- 
try town, but I am elated when I see him, for he 
can tell me whether the Government is still in 



44 LIFK IN A COUNTRY MANSE. 

power. Then I have the school inspector once a 
year. The school inspector is always threatening 
to change the date of inspection to summer, but 
he takes the town from which the doctor comes in 
early spring, and finds it convenient to come from 
there to here. Early spring is often winter with 
us, so that the school inspector comes when there 
is usually snow on the ground or threatening. The 
school is a mile away at another ' ' clachan, ' ' but 
the inspector dines with me, and so does the school- 
master. On these occasions the schoolmaster is 
not such good com.pany as at other times, for he is 
anxious about his passes, and explains (as I think) 
more than is necessary that regular attendance is 
out of the question in a place like this. The in- 
spector's visit is the time of my great annual po- 
litical debate, for the doctor calls politics "fudge." 
The inspector and I are on different sides, however, 
and we go at each other hammer and tongs, while 
the schoolmaster signs to me with his foot not to 
anger the inspector. 

Of course, outsiders will look incredulous when 
I assure them that a good deal of time is passed in 
preparing my sermons. I have only one Sabbath 
service, but two sermons, the one beginning as 



I,IFK IN A COUNTRY MANSE. 45 

soon as the other is finished. In such a little 
church, you will say they must be easily pleased ; 
but they are not. Some of them tramp long dis- 
tances to church in weather that would keep you, 
reader, in the house, though your church is round 
the corner and there is pavement all the way to it. 
I can preach old sermons ? Indeed I cannot. 
Many of my hearers adjourn to one of the five 
houses when the service is over, and there I am 
picked pretty clean. They would detect an old 
sermon at once, and resent it. I do not ' ' talk ' ' 
to them from the pulpit. I write my sermons in 
the manse, and though I use ' ' paper, ' ' the less I 
use it the better they are pleased. 
• The visits of the doctor are pleasant to me in one 
sense, but painful in others, for I need not say that 
when he is called I am required too. To wade 
through miles of snow is no great hardship to 
those who are accustomed to it ; but the heavy 
heart comes when one of my people is seriously ill. 
Up here we have few slight illnesses. The doctor 
cannot be summoned to attend them, and we 
usually ' ' fight away ' ' until the malady has a 
heavy hold. Then the doctor comes, and though 
we are so scattered, his judgment is soon known all 



46 I.IFB IN A COUNTRY MANSK. 

througli the glens. When the tourists come back 
in summer they will not see all the ' ' natives ' ' of 
the year before. 

It is said by those who know nothing of our 
lives that we have no social events worth speaking 
of, and no amusements. This is what ignorance 
brings outsiders to. I had a marriage last week 
that was probably more exciting than many of your 
grand affairs in London. And as for amusements, 
you should see us gathered together in the smiddy, 
and sometimes in the school-house. But I must 
break off here for the reason that I have used up 
all my spare sermon paper — a serious matter. I 
shall send the editor something about our social 
gatherings presently, for he says he wants it. Janet, 
I may add, has discovered that this is not a sermon 
and is very curious about it. 



LIFE IN A COUNTRY 
MANSE. 



A WEDDING IN A SMIDDY. 



LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSE 



A WEDDING IN A SMIDDY. 



T PROMISED to take the world at large into my 
-*- confidence on the subject of our wedding at 
the smiddy. You in London, no doubt, dress 
more gorgeously for marriages than we do — though 
we can present a fine show of color — and you do 
not make your own wedding-cake, as Lizzie did. 
But what is your excitement to ours ? I suppose 
you have many scores of marriages for our one, but 
you only know of those from the newspapers. "At 
so-and-so, by the Rev. Mr. Such-a-one, John to 
Elizabeth, eldest daughter of Thomas. ' ' That is 
all you know of the couple who were married round 
the corner, and therefore, I say, a hundred such 
weddings are less eventful in your community than 
one wedding in ours. 

Lizzie is off to Southampton with her husband. 
As the carriage drove off behind two horses that 
could with difficulty pull it through the snow, Janet 
suddenly appeared at my elbow and remarked : 

4 49 



50 I.IFE IN A COUNTRY MANSK. 

*'Well, well, she has hhn now, and may she 
have her joy of him." 

"Ah, Janet," I said, "you see you were wrong. 
You said he would never come for her. ' ' 

" No, no," answered Janet. " I just said Ivizzie 
made too sure about him, seeing as he was at the 
other side of the world. These sailors are scarce 
to be trusted. ' ' 

" But you see this one has turned up a trump." 

' ' That remains to be seen. Anybody that's single 
can marry a woman, but it's no so easy to keep her 
comfortable. ' ' 

I suppose Janet is really glad that the sailor did 
turn up and claim Lizzie, but she is annoyed in a 
way too. The fact is that Janet was skeptical 
about the sailor. I never saw Janet reading any- 
thing but the Free Church Monthly^ yet she must 
have obtained her wide knowledge of sailors from 
books. She considers them very bad characters, 
but is too shrewd to give her reasons. 

"We all ken what sailors are," is her dark way 
of denouncing those who go down to the sea in 
ships, and then she shakes her head and purses up 
her mouth as if she could tell things about sailors 
that would make our hair rise. 



WFK IN A COUNTRY MANSK. 5 1 

I think it was in Glasgow that Lizzie met the 
sailor — three years ago. She had gone there to be 
a servant, but the size of the place (according to 
her father) frightened her, and in a few months she 
was back at the clachan. We were all quite ex- 
cited to see her again in the church, and the general 
impression was that Glasgow had ' ' made her a deal 
more lady-like." In Janet's opinion she was just 
a little too lady-like to be natural. 

In a week's time there was a wild rumor through 
the glen that Lizzie was to be married. 

' ' Not she, ' ' said Janet, uneasily. 

Soon, however, Janet had to admit that there was 
truth in the story, for ' ' the way Lizzie wandered 
up the road looking for the post showed she had a 
man on her mind. ' ' 

Lizzie, I think, wanted to keep her wonderful 
secret to herself, but that could not be done. 

''I canna sleep at nights for wondering who 
Lizzie is to get," Janet admitted to me. So in 
order to preserve her health Janet studied the affair, 
reflected on the kind of people Lizzie was likely to 
meet in Glasgow, asked Lizzie to the manse to tea 
(with no result), and then asked Lizzie's mother 
(victory). Lizzie was to be married to a sailor. 



52 I<IFB IN A COUNTRY MANSE. 

*'I'm cheated," said Janet, "if she ever sets 
eyes on him again. Oh, we all ken what sailors 
are." 

You must not think Janet too spiteful. Marriages 
were always too much for her, but after the wed- 
ding is over she becomes good-natured again. She 
is a strange mixture, and, I rather think, very 
romantic, despite her cynical talk. 

Well, I confess now, that for a time I was some- 
what afraid of Lizzie's sailor myself. His letters 
became few in number, and often I saw Lizzie with 
red eyes after the post had passed. She had too 
much work to do to allow her to mope, but she 
became unhappy and showed a want of spirit that 
alarmed her father, who liked to shout at his 
relatives and have them shout back at him. 

"I wish she had never set eyes on that, sailor," 
he said to me one day when Lizzie was troubling, 
him. 

"She could have had William Simpson," her 
mother said to Janet. 

' ' I question that, ' ' said Janet, in repeating the 
remark to me. 

But though all the clachan shook its head at the 
sailor, and repeated Janet's aphorism about sailors 



LIFK IN A COUNTRY M ANSIS- 53 

as a class, I^izzie refused to believe her lover un- 
tnie. 

"The only way to get her to flare up at me,'^ 
her father said, ''is to say a word against her lad. 
She will not stand that." 

And, after all, we were wrong and Lizzie was 
right. In the beginning of the winter Janet walked 
into my study and parlor (she never knocks) and said : 

' ' He' s come ! ' ' 

"Who?" Tasked. 

"The sailor. lyizzie's sailor. It's a perfect 
disgrace. ' ' 

" Hoots, Janet, it's the very reverse. I'm de- 
lighted ; and so, I suppose, are you in your heart." 

"I'm not grudging her the man if she wants 
him," said Janet, flinging up her head, "but the 
disgrace is in the public way he marched past me 
with his arm round her. It affronted me. ' ' 

Janet gave me the details. She had been to a 
farm for the milk and passed Lizzie, who had 
wandered out to meet the post as usual. 

"I've no letter for ye, Lizzie," the post said, and 
Lizzie sighed. 

"No, my lass," the post continued, "but Pve 
something better. ' ' 



54 WFB IN A COUNTRY MANSE. 

I^izzie was wondering what it could be, when a 
man jumped out from behind a hedge, at the sight 
of whom Lizzie screamed with joy. It was her 
sailor. 

' ' I would never have let on I was so fond of 
him," said Janet. 

'' But did he not seem fond of her?" I asked. 

' ' That was the disgrace, ' ' said Janet. * ' He 
marched off to her father's house with his arm 
around her ; yes, passed me and a wheen other folk, 
and looked as if he neither kent nor cared how 
public he was making himself. She did not care 
either. " 

I addressed some remarks to Janet on the subject 
of meddling with other people's affairs, pointing out 
that she was now half an hour late with my tea ; 
but I, too, was interested to see the sailor. I shall 
never forget what a change had come over Lizzie 
when I saw her next. The life was back in her 
face, she bustled about the house as busy as a bee, 
and her walk was springy. 

*'This is him," she said to me, and then the 
sailor came forward and grinned. He was usually 
grinning when I saw him, but he had an honest, 
open face, if a very youthful one. 



LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSE. 55 

The sailor stayed on at the clachan till the mar- 
riage, and continued to scandalize Janet by strut- 
ting ' ' past the very manse gate ' ' with his arm round 
the happy I^izzie. 

*' He has no notion of the solemnity of marriage/' 
Janet informed me, "or he would look less jolly. 
I would not like a man that joked about his mar- 
riage. ' ' 

The sailor undoubtedly did joke. He seemed to 
look on the coming event as the most comical 
affair in the world's history, and when he spoke of 
it he slapped his knees and roared. But there was 
daily fresh evidence that he was devoted to Lizzie. 

The wedding took place in the smiddy, because 
it is a big place, and all the glen was invited, 
lyizzie would have had the company comparatively 
select, but the sailor asked every one to come whom 
he fell in with, and he had few refusals. He was 
wonderfully "flush" of money, too, and had not 
Lizzie taken control of it, would have given it all 
away before the marriage took place. 

"It's a mercy Lizzie kens the worth of a baw- 
bee," her mother said, "for he would scatter his 
siller among the very bairns as if it was corn and he 
was feeding hens." 



56 I^IFE IN A COUNTRY MANSS. 

All the chairs in the five houses were not suffi- 
cient to seat the guests, but the smith is a handy 
man, and he made forms by crossing planks on 
tubs. The smiddy was an amazing sight, lit up 
with two big lamps, and the bride, let me inform 
those who tend to scoff, was dressed in white. As 
for the sailor, we have perhaps never had so showily 
dressed a gentleman in our parts. For this occa- 
sion he discarded his seafaring "rig out" (as he 
called it), and appeared resplendent in a black frock 
coat (tight at the neck), a light blue waistcoat 
(richly ornamented), and gray trousers with a green 
stripe. His boots were new and so genteel that as 
the evening wore on he had to kick them off and 
dance in his stocking soles. 

Janet tells me that Lizzie had gone through the 
ceremony in private with her sailor a number of 
times, so that he might make no mistake. The 
smith, asked to take my place at these rehearsals, 
declined on the ground that he forgot how the knot 
was tied : but his wife had a better memor>^, and I 
understand that she even mimicked me — for which 
I must take her to task one of these days. 

However, despite all these precautions, the sailor 
was a little demonstrative during the ceremony, 



LIFK IN A COUNTRY MANSK. 57 

and slipped his arm around the bride ' ' to steady 
her. ' ' Janet wonders that lyizzie did not fling his 
arm from her, but lyizzie was too nervous now to 
know what her swain was about. 

Then came the supper and the songs and the 
speeches. The tourists who picture us shivering, 
silent and depressed all through the winter should 
have been in the smiddy that night. 

I proposed the health of the young couple, and 
when I called Lizzie by her new name, ' ' Mrs. 
Fairweather, " the sailor flung back his head and 
roared with glee till he choked, and Lizzie's first 
duty as a wife was to hit him hard between the 
shoulder blades. When he was sufiiciently com- 
posed to reply, he rose to his feet and grinned 
round the room. 

' ' Mrs. Fairweather, ' ' he cried in an ecstacy of 
delight, and again choked. 

The smith induced him to make another attempt, 
and this time he got as far as ' ' Ladies and gentle- 
men, me and my wife " when the speech 

ended prematurely in resounding chuckles. The 
last we saw of him, when the carriage drove away, 
he was still grinning ; but that, as he explained, 



58 LIFE IN A COUNTRY MANSB. 

was because ' ' he had got Lizzie at last. " " YouUl 
be a good husband to her, I hope/' I said. 

"Will I not," he cried, and his arm went round 
his wife again. 



A POWERFUL DRUG. 



A POWERFUL DRUG 



(NO HOUSEHOLD SHOULD BE WITHOUT IT.) 



ALL respectable chemists, Montgomery assures 
- me, keep the cio-root. That is the name 
of the drug, and Montgomery is the man who 
ought to write its testimonials. This is a 
testimonial to the efficacy of the cio-root, and I 
write it the more willingly, because, until the case 
of Montgomery cropped up, I had no faith in patent 
medicines. Seeing, however, is, they say, believ- 
ing ; and I have seen what the cio-root did for 
Montgomery. I can well believe now that it can 
do anything, from removing grease-spots to making 
your child cry out in the night. 

Montgomery, who was married years ago, is 
subject to headaches, and formerly his only way of 
treating them was to lie in bed and read a light 
novel. By the time the novel was finished, so, as 
a rule, was the headache. This treatment rather 
interfered with his work, however, and he tried 
various medicines which were guaranteed to cure 

61 



62 A POWERFUL DRUG. 

rapidly. None of them had the least result, until 
one day, some two months ago, good fortune made 
him run against an old friend in Chambers street. 
Montgomery having a headache, mentioned it, and 
his friend asked him if he had tried the cio-root. 
The name even was unfamiliar to Montgomery, 
but his friend spoke so enthusiastically of it that 
the headachy man took a note of it. He was told 
that it had never been known to fail, and the 
particular merit of it was that it drove the headache 
away in five minutes. The proper dose to take was 
half an inch of the root, which was to be sucked 
and eventually swallowed. Montgomery tried 
several chemists in vain, for they had not heard of 
it, but at last he got it on George IV. Bridge. He 
had so often carried home in triumph a ' ' certain 
cure," which was subsequently flung out at the 
window in disgust, that his wife shook her head at 
the cio-root, and advised him not to be too hopeful. 
However, the cio-root surpassed the fondest expec- 
tations. It completely cured Montgomery in less 
than the five minutes. Several times he tried it, 
and always with the same triumphant result. 
Having at last got a drug to make an idol of, it is 
not perhaps to be wondered at that Montgomery 



A POWERFUL DRUG. 6^ 

was full of gratitude. He kept a three pound tin 
of the cio-root on his library-table, and the moment 
he felt a headache coming on he said, ' ' Excuse me 
for one moment, ' ' and bit off half an inch of cio- 
root. 

The headaches never had a chance. It was, 
therefore, natural, though none the less annoying, 
that his one topic of conversation should become 
the properties of this remarkable drug. You would 
drop in on him, glowing over the prospect of a 
delightful two hours' wrangle over the crofter 
question, but he pushed the subject away with a 
wave of his hand, and begged to introduce to our 
notice the cio-root. Sitting there smoking, his 
somewhat dull countenance would suddenly light 
up as his eyes came to rest on the three-pound tin. 
He was always advising us to try the cio-root, and 
when we said we did not have a headache he got 
sulky. The first thing he asked us when we met 
was whether we had a headache, and often he 
clipped off an inch or two of the cio-root and gave 
it us in a piece of paper, so that a headache might 
not take us unawares. I believe he rather enjoyed 
waking with a headache, for he knew that it would 
not have a chance. If his wife had been a jealous 



64 A POWERFUL DRUG. 

woman, she would not have liked the way he 
talked of the cio-root. 

Some of us did try the drug, either to please 
him or because we were really curious about it. 
Whatever the reason, none of us, I think, were 
prejudiced. We tested it on its merits, and came 
unanimously to the conclusion that they were neg- 
ative. The cio-root did us no harm. The taste 
was what one may imagine to be the taste of the 
root of any rotten tree dipped in tar, which was 
subsequently allowed to dry. As we were all of 
one mind on the subject, we insisted with Mont- 
gomery that the cio-root was a fraud. Frequently 
we had such altercations with him on the subject 
that we parted in sneers, and ultimately we said 
that it would be best not to goad him too far ; so 
we arranged merely to chaff him about his faith in 
the root, and never went farther than insisting, in 
a pleasant way, that he was cured, not by the cio- 
root, but by his believing in it. Montgomery 
rejected this theory with indignation, but we stuck 
to it and never doubted it. Events, nevertheless, 
will show you that Montgomery was right and that 
we were wrong. 

The triumph of cio-root came as recently as yes- 



A POWSRFUI. DRUG. 65 

terday. Montgomery, his wife, and myself, had 
arranged to go into Glasgow for the day. I called 
for them in the forenoon and had to wait, as Mont- 
gomery had gone along to the office to see if there 
were any letters. He arrived soon after me, saying 
that he had a headache, but saying it in a clieery 
way, for he knew that the root was in tlie next 
room. He disappeared into the library to nibble 
half an inch of the cio-root, and shortly afterwards 
we set off. The headache had been dispelled as 
usual. In the train he and I had another argument 
about the one great drug, and he ridiculed my 
notion about its being faith that drove his headache 
away. I may hurry over the next two hours, up to 
the time w^hen we wandered into Buchanan street. 
There Montgomery met a friend, to whom he intro- 
duced me. The gentleman was in a hurry, so we 
only spoke for a moment, but after he had left us 
he turned back. 

* ' Montgomery, ' ' he said, ' * do you remember that 
day I met you in Chambers street, Edinburgh?" 

" I have good reason for remembering the occa- 
sion," said Montgomery, meaning to begin the 
story of his wonderful cure ; but his friend who 
had to catch a 'bus, cut him short. 



66 A POWERFUIy DRUG. 

' ' I told you at that time, ' ' he said, * ' about a 
new drug called the cio-root, which had a great 
reputation for curing headaches. ' ' 

' ' Yes, ' ' said Montgomery ; * ' I always wanted to 
thank you ' ' 

His friend, however, broke in again — 

* * I have been troubled in my mind since then, ' * 
he said, *' because I was told afterwards that I had 
made a mistake about the proper dose. If you try 
the cio-root, don't take half an inch, as I recom- 
mended, but quarter of an inch. Don't forget. It 
is of vital importance.** 

Then he jumped into his 'bus, but I called after 
him, * ' What would be the effect of half an inch ? ' ' 

"Certain death !" he shouted back, and was 
gone. I turned to look at Montgomery and his 
wife. She let her umbrella fall and he had turned 
white. " Of course, there is nothing to be alarmed 
about, ' ' I said, in a reassuring way. ' ' Montgomery 
has taken half an inch scores of times ; you say it 
always cured you." 

* ' Yes, yes, ' ' Montgomery answered ; but his 
voice sounded hollow. 

Up to this point the snow had kept off, but now 
it began to fall in a soaking drizzle. If you are 



A POWKRFUI, DRUG. 67 

superstitious you can take this as an omen. For 
the rest of the day, certainly, we had a miserable 
time of it. I had to do all the talking, and while 
I laughed and jested, I noticed that Mrs. Mont- 
gomery was looking anxiously from time to time at 
her husband. She was afraid to ask him if he felt 
unwell, and he kept up, not wanting to alarm her. 
But he walked like a man who knew that he had 
come to his last page. At my suggestion we went 
to the Enoch's Station Hotel to have dinner. I had 
dinner, Mrs. Montgomery pretended to have dinner, 
but Montgomery himself did not even make the 
pretense. He sat with his elbows on the table and 
his face buried in his hands. At last he said with 
a groan that he was feeling very ill. He looked so 
doleful that his wife began to cry. 

Montgomery admitted that he blamed the cio- 
root for his sufferings. He had taken an overdose 
of it, he said, tragically, and must abide the con- 
sequences. I could have shaken him, for reasoning 
was quite flung away on him. Of course, I re- 
peated what I had said previously about an overdose 
having done him no harm before, but he only 
shook his head sadly. I said that his behavior 
now proved my contention that he only believed in 



68 A POWKRFUIv DRUG. 

the cio-root because he was told that it had wonder- 
ful properties ; otherwise he would have laughed at 
what his friend had just told him. Undoubtedly, 
I said, his sufiferings to-day were purely imaginary. 
Montgomery did not have sufficient spirits to argue 
with me, but he murmured in a die-away voice 
that he had felt strange symptoms ever since we set, 
out from Edinburgh. Now, this was as absurd as 
anything in Euclid, for he had been boasting of the 
wonderful cure the drug had effected again most of 
the way between Edinburgh and Glasgow. He 
insisted that he had a splitting headache, and that 
he was very sick. In the end, as his wife was now 
in a frenzy, I sent out for a doctor. The doctor 
came, said ''yes'' and "quite so" to himself, and 
pronounced Montgomery feverish. That he was 
feverish by this time, I do not question. He had 
worked himself into a fever. There was some talk 
of putting him to bed in the hotel, but he insisted 
on going home. Though he did not put it so 
plainly, he gave us to understand that he wanted 
to die in his own bed. 

Never was there a more miserable trio than we 
in a railway carriage. We got a compartment to 
ourselves, for though several passengers opened the 



A POWERFUL DRUG. 69 

door to come in, they shrank back as soon as they 
saw Montgomery's ghastly face. He lay in a corner 
of the carriage, with his head done up in flannel, 
procured at the hotel. He had the rugs and my 
great coat over his legs, but he shivered despite 
them, and when he spoke at all, except to say that 
he was feeling worse every minute, it was to talk 
of men cut off in their prime and widows left de- 
stitute. At Mrs. Montgomery's wish, I telegraphed 
from a station at which the train stopped to the 
family doctor in Edinburgh, asking him to meet us 
at the house. He did so ; indeed, he was on the 
steps to help Montgomery up them. We took an 
arm of the invalid apiece, and dragged him into 
the library. 

It was a fortunate thing that we went into the 
library, for the first thing Montgomery saw on the 
table was the half inch of cio-root which he thought 
had killed him. He had forgotten to take it. 

In ten minutes he was all right. Just as we were 
sitting down to supper, we heard a cat squalling 
outside. Montgomery flung a three-pound tin of 
the cio-root at it 



EVERY MAN HIS OWN 
DOCTOR. 



EVERY MAN HIS OWN 
DOCTOR. 



STATISTICS showing the number of persons 
who yearly meet their death in our great cities 
by the fall of telegraph wires are published 
from time to time. As our cities grow, and the 
need of telegraphic communication is more gener- 
ally felt, this danger will become even more con- 
spicuous. Persons who value their lives are earnestly 
advised not to walk under telegraph wires. 

Is it generally realized that every day at least one 
fatal accident occurs in our streets ? So many of 
these take place at crossings that we would strongly 
urge the public never to venture across a busy 
street until all the vehicles have passed. 

We find prevalent among our readers an impres- 
sion that countiy life is comparatively safe. This 
mistake has cost Great Britain many lives The 
country is so full of hidden dangers that one may 
be said to risk his health every time he ventures 

into it. 

98 



74 EiVKRY MAN HIS OWN DOCYOR. 

We feel it our duty to remind holiday-makers 
that when in the country in the open air, they 
should never sit down. Many a man, aye, and 
woman too, has been done to death by neglecting 
this simple precaution. The recklessness of the 
public, indeed, in such matters is incomprehen- 
sible. The day is hot, they see an inviting grassy 
bank, and down they sit. Need we repeat that 
despite the sun (which is ever treacherous) they 
should continue walking at a smart pace ? Yes, 
bitter experience has taught us that we must repeat 
such warnings. 

When walking in the country holiday-makers 
should avoid over-heating themselves. Nothing is 
so conducive to disease. We have no hesitation in 
saying that nine-tenths of the colds that prove fatal 
are caught through neglect of this simple rule. 

Beware of walking on grass. Though it may be 
dry to the touch, damp is ever present, and cold 
caught in this way is always difficult to cure. 

Avoid high roads in the country. They are, for 
the most part, unsheltered, and on hot days the sun 
beats upon them unmercifully. The perspiration 
that ensues is the beginning of many a troublesome 
illness. 



KVSRY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR. 75 

Country lanes are stuffy and unhealthy, owing 
to the sun not getting free ingress into them. They 
should, therefore, be avoided by all who value their 
health. 

In a magazine we observe an article extolling the 
pleasures of walking in a wood. That walking in 
a wood may be pleasant we do not deny, but for 
our own part we avoid woods. More draughty 
places could not well be imagined and many a 
person who has walked in a wood has had cause to 
repent it for the rest of his life. 

It is every doctor's experience that there is a 
large public which breaks down in health simply 
because it does not take sufficient exercise in the 
open air. Once more we would remind our readers 
that every man, woman or child who does not 
spend at least two hours daily in the open air is 
slowly committing suicide. 

How pitiful it is to hear a business man say, as 
business men so often say, ^' Really I cannot take 
a holiday this summer ; my business ties me so 
to my desk, and, besides, I am feeling quite 
well. No, I shall send my wife and children to 
the seaside, and content myself with a Saturday- 
to-Monday now and again.'' We solemnly warn 



76 EVKRY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR. 

all sucli foolisli persons thai they are digging their 
own graves. Change is absolutely essential to 
health. 

Asked the other day why coughs were so preva- 
lent in the autumn, we replied without hesitation, 
** Because during the past month or two so many 
persons have changed their beds.** City people 
rush to the seaside in their thousands, and here is 
the result. A change of beds is dangerous to all, 
but perhaps chiefly to persons of middle age. We 
have so often warned the public of this that we can 
only add now, ' * If they continue to disregard our 
warning, their blood be on their own heads.'* This 
we say not in anger, but in sorrow. 

A case has come to our knowledge of a penny 
causing death. It had passed through the hands 
oi a person suffering from infectious fever into 
those of a child, who got it as change from a shop. 
The child took the fever and died in about a fort- 
night. We would not have mentioned this case 
had we not known it to be but an instance of what 
is happening daily. Infection is frequently spread 
by money, and we would strongly urge no one to 
take change (especially coppers), from another 
without seeing it first dipped in warm water. Who 



EVKRY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR. 77 

can tell where the penny he gets in change from 
the newspaper-boy has come from ? 

If ladies, who are ever purchasing new clothes, 
were aware that disease often lurks in these, they 
would be less anxious to enter dressmakers' shops. 
The saleswoman who " fits " them may come daily 
from a home where her sister lies sick of a fever, 
or the dress may have been made in some East End 
den, where infection is rampant. Cases of the kind 
frequently come to our knowledge, and we would 
warn the public against this danger that is ever 
present among us. 

Must we again enter a protest against insufficient 
clothing ? We never take a walk along any of 
our fashionable thoroughfares without seeing scores 
of persons, especially ladies, insufficiently clad. 
The same spectacle, alas ! may be witnessed in the 
East End, but for a different reason. Fashionable 
ladies have a hoiTor of seeming stout, and to retain 
a slim appearance they will suffer agonies of cold. 
The world would be appalled if it knew how many 
of these women die before their fortieth year. 

We dress far too heavily. The fact is, that we 
would be a much healthier people if we wore less 
clothing. Eadies especially wrap themselves up 



78 EVKRY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR. 

too much, with the result that their blood does not 
circulate freely. Coats, ulsters, and other wraps, 
cause far more colds than they prevent. 

Why have our ladies nc t the smattering of scien- 
tific knowledge that would tell them to vary the 
thickness of their clothing with the v/eather ? New 
garments, indeed, they do don for winter, but how 
many of them put on extra flannels ? 

We are far too frightened of the weather, treat- 
ing it as our enemy when it is ready to be our 
friend. With the first appearance of frost we fly 
to extra flannel, and thus dangerously overheat 
ourselves. 

Though there has been a great improvement in 
this matter in recent years, it would be idle to pre- 
tend that we are yet a cleanly nation. To speak 
bluntly, we do not change our undergarments with 
sufficient frequency. This may be owing to various 
reasons, but none of them is an excuse. Frequent 
change of underclothing is a necessity for the pre- 
servation of health, and woe to those who neglect 
this simple precaution. 

Owing to the carelessness of servants and others 
it is not going too far to say that four times in five 
undergarments are put on in a state of semi-damp- 



EVKRY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR. 79 

ness. What a fearful danger is here. We do not 
hesitate to say that every time a person changes his 
linen he does it at his peril. 

This is such an age of bustle that comparatively 
few persons take time to digest their food. They 
swallow it, and run. Yet they complain of not being 
in good health. The wonder rather is that they do not 
fall dead in the street, as, indeed, many of them do . 

How often have doctors been called in to patients 
whom they find crouching by the fireside and com- 
plaining of indigestion ! Too many medical men 
pamper such patients, though it is their plain duty 
to tell the truth. And what is the truth ? Why, 
simply this, that after dinner the patient is in the 
habit of spending his evening in an arm-chair, 
when he ought to be out in the open air, walking 
off the effects of his heavy meal. 

Those who work hard ought to eat plentifully, 
or they will find that they are burning the candle 
at both ends. Surely no science is required to 
prove this. Work is, so to speak, a furnace, and 
the brighter the fire the more coals it ought to be 
fed \yith, or it will go out. Yet we are a people 
who let our systems go down by disregarding this 
raost elementary and obvious rule of health. 



8o EVERY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR. 

If doctors could afford to be outspoken, they would 
twenty times a day tell patients that they are simply 
suffering from over-eating themselves. Every 
foreigner who visits this country is struck by this 
propensity of our to eat too much. 

Very heart-breaking are the statistics now to 
hand from America about the increase in smoking. 
That this fatal habit is also growing in favor in this 
country every man who uses his eyes must see. 
What will be the end of it we shudder to think, 
but we warn those in high places that if tobacco 
smoking is not checked, it will sap the very vitals 
of this country. Why is it that nearly every young 
man one meets in the streets is haggard and pale ? 
No one will deny that it is due to tobacco. As for 
the miserable wretch himself, his troubles will soon 
be over. 

We have felt it our duty from time to time to 
protest against what is known as the anti-tobacco 
campaign. We are, we believe, under the mark in 
saying that nine doctors in every ten smoke, which 
is sufficient disproof of the absurd theory that the 
medical profession, as a whole, are against smoking. 
As a disinfectant, we are aware that tobacco has 
saved many lives. In these days of wear and tear, 



KVKRY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR. 8 1 

it is Specially useful as a sedative ; indeed, many 
times a day, as we pass pale young men in the 
streets, whose pallor is obviously due to over-excite- 
ment about their businesses, we have thought of 
stopping them, and ordering a pipe as the medicine 
they chiefly require. 

Even were it not a destroyer of health, smoking 
could be condemned for the good and sufficient 
reason that it makes man selfish. It takes away 
from his interest in conversation, gives him a liking 
for solitude, and deprives the family circle of his 
presence. 

Not only is smoking excellent for the health, but 
it makes the smoker a better man. It ties him 
down more to the domestic circle, and loosens his 
tongue. In short, it makes him less selfish. 

No one will deny that smoking and drinking go 
together. The one provokes a taste for the other, 
and many a man who has died a drunkard had to- 
bacco to thank for giving him the taste for drink. 

Every one is aware that heavy sm^okers are seldom 
heavy drinkers. When asked, as we often are, for 
a cure for the drink madness, we have never any 
hesitation in advising the application of tobacco in 
larger quantities. 



82 KVERY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR. 

Finally, smoking stupefies the intellect. 

In conclusion, we would remind our readers that 
our deepest thinkers have almost invariably been 
heavy smokers. Some of them have gone so far 
as to say that they owe their intellects to their 
pipes. 

The clerical profession is so poorly paid that we 
would not advise any parent to send his son into it. 
Poverty means insufficiency in many ways, and that 
means physical disease. 

Not only is the medical profession overstocked 
(like all the others), but medical work is terribly 
trying to the constitution. Doctors are a short- 
lived race. 

The law is such a sedentary calling, that parents 
who care for their sons' health should advise them 
against it. 

Most literary people die of starvation. 

Trades are very trying to the young ; indeed, 
every one of them has its dangers. Painters die 
from blood poisoning, for instance, and masons 
from the inclemency of the weather. The com- 
mercial life on ^Change is so exciting that for a 
man without a specially strong heart to venture 
into it is to court death. 



EVERY MAN HIS OWN DOCTOR. 83 

There is, perhaps, no such enemy to health as 
want of occupation. We would entreat all young 
men, therefore, whether of private means or not, 
to attach themselves to some healthy calling. 



1 



GRETNA GREEN 
REVISITED. 



GRETNA GREEN REVISITED. 



THE one bumpy street of Springfield, despite 
its sparse crop of grass, presents to this day a 
depressed appearance, a relic of the time when it 
doubled up under a weight of thundering chariots. 
At the well-remembered, notorious Queen's Head I 
stood in the gathering gloaming, watching the road 
run yellow, until the last draggled hen had spluttered 
through the pools to roost, and the mean row of white- 
washed, shrunken houses across the way had sunk 
into the sloppy ground, as they have been doing 
slowly for half a century, or were carried away in 
a rush of rain. Soaking weeds hung in lifeless 
bunches over the hedges of spears that line the 
roads from Gretna; on sodden Canobie Ivca, where 
lyochinvar's steed would to-day have had to wade 
through yielding slush, dirty piles of congealed 
snow were still reluctant to be gone; and gnarled 
tree trunks, equally with palings that would have 
come out of the ground with a sloppy gluck, showed 
a dank and cheerless green. Yesterday the rooks 

87 



"88 GRKTNA GRKKN REVISITED. 

! 

dinned the air, and the parish of Gretna witnessed 

such a marrying and giving in marriage as might 
have flung it back fifty years. Elsewhere such a 
solemn cawing round the pulpit on the tree tops 
would denote a court of justice, but in the vicinity 
of Springfield, it may be presumed, the thoughts 
of the very rooks run on matrimony. 

A little while ago Willum Lang, a postman's 
empty letter-bag on his back, and a glittering drop 
trembling from his nose, picked his way through 
the puddles, his lips pursed into a portentous frown, 
and his grey head bowed professionally in contem- 
plation of a pair of knock-knee' d but serviceable 
shanks. A noteworthy man Willum, son of Simon, 
son of David, grandson by marriage of Joseph 
Paisley, all famous *' blacksmiths " of Gretna 
Green. For nigh a century Springfield has marked 
time by the Liangs, and still finds ' ' In David 
lyang's days" as forcible as ''when Plancus was 
consul." Willum' s predecessors in office reserved 
themselves for carriage runaways, and would shake 
the lids from their coffins if they knew that Willum 
had to marry the once despised ''pedestrians." 
*'Bven Elliot," David lyang would say, "could 
join couples who came on foot, ' ' and that, of course. 



GRBTNA GRKKN RKVISIT'^D. 89 

was very hard on the poor pedestrian, for greater 
contempt no man ever had for rival than David for 
Elliot, unless, indeed, it was Elliot's for David. 
But those were the great clattering days, when 
there were four famous marrying shops: the two 
rival inns of Springfield, that washed their hands 
of each other across the street, Mr. I^in ton's aristo- 
cratic quarters at Gretna Hall, and the toll-bar on 
the right side of the Sark. A gentleman who had 
requisitioned the services of the toll-keeper many 
years ago recently made a journey across the border 
to shake his fist at the bar, and no one in Gretna 
Green can at all guess why. Far-seeing Murray, 
the sometime priest of Gretna Hall, informed me, 
succeeded Beattie at the toll-house in 1843, ^^^ 
mighty convenient friends in need they both proved 
for the couples who dashed across the border with 
foaming fathers at their coaches' wheels. The 
stone bridge flashed fire to rushing hoofs, the ex- 
ulting pursuers, knowing that a half-mile brae still 
barred the way to Springfield, saw themselves 
tearing romantic maidens from adventurers' arms, 
when Beattie' s lamp gleamed in the night, the 
horses stopped as if an invisible sword had cleft 
them in twain, the maid was whisked like a bun- 



90 GRE:TNA GRKKN RKVISITKD, 

die of stolen goods into the toll-bar, and her father 
flung himself in at the door in time to be intro- 
duced to his son-in-law. Oh, Beattie knew how to 
do his work expeditiously, and fat he waxed on the 
proceeds. In his later days marrying became the 
passion of his life, and he never saw a man and a 
maid together without creeping up behind them 
and beginning the marriage service. In Springfield 
there still are men and women who have fled from 
him for their celibacy, marriage in Scotland being 
such an easy matter that you never know when 
they may not have you. In joining couples for 
the mere pleasure of the thing, Simon brought high 
fees into disrepute, and was no favorite with the 
rest of the priesthood. That half-mile nearer the 
border, Jardine admits, gave the toll-bar a big ad- 
vantage, but for runaways who could risk another 
ten minutes, Gretna Hall was the place to be mar- 
ried at. 

Willum Liang's puckered face means business. 
He has been sent for by a millworker from 
Ivangholm, who, having an hour to spare, thinks 
he may as well drop in at the priest's and get 
spliced ; or by an innocent visitor wandering 
through the village in search of the mythical 



GRETNA GREliN R^VISlTl^D. 91 

smithy ; or by a lawyer who shakes his finger 
threateningly at Willum ( and might as well have 
stayed at home with his mother). From the most 
distant shores letters reach him regarding Gretna 
marriages, and if Willum dislikes monotony he 
must be getting rather sick of the stereotyped be- 
ginning ' ' I think your charges very extortionate. ' ' 
The stereotyped ending ' ' but the sum you asked 
for is enclosed, ' ' is another matter. It is generally 
about midnight that the rustics of the county rattle 
Willum' s door off it's snib and, bending over his 
bed, tell him to arise and many them. His hand 
is crossed with silver coin, for gone are the bride- 
grooms whose gold dribbled in a glittering cascade 
from fat purses to a homy palm ; and then, with a 
sleepy neighbor, a cold hearth, and a rattling cynic 
of a window for witnesses, he does the deed. Else- 
where I have used these words to describe the 
scene : — "The room in which the Gretna Green 
marriages have been celebrated for many years is a 
large rude kitchen, but dimly lighted by a small 
' bole ' window of lumpy glass that faces an ill-fit- 
ting back door. The draught generated between 
the two cuts the spot where the couples stand, and 
must prove a godsend to flushed and flurried bride- 



95 Orktna gre^kn rkvisitkd. 

grooms. A bed— wooden and solid, ornamented 
witli divers • shaped and divers colored clothes de- 
pendent from its woodwork like linen hung on a 
line to dry — fills a lordly space. The monster fire- 
place retreats bashfully before it into the opposite 
wall, and a grimy cracked ceiling looks on a 
bumpy stone floor, from which a cleanly man could 
eat his porridge. One shabby wall is happily hid 
by the drawers in which lyang keeps his books ; 
and against the head of the bed an apoplectic Mrs. 
I^angtry in a blue dress and yellow stockings, re- 
minding the public that vSimon Lang's teas are the 
best, shudders at her reflection in the looking-glass 
that dangles opposite her from a string." The 
signboard over a snuffy tavern tliat attempted to 
enter into rivalry with the Queen's Head depicts 
the priest on his knees going through tiie cliurch 
marriage services, but the lyangs have always kept 
their method of performing the ceremony a secret 
between themselves and the interested persons, and 
the artist in this case was doubtless drawing on his 
imagination. The picture is discredited by the 
scene of the wedding being made in a smithy, 
when it is notorious that the "blacksmith" has 
cut the tobacco plug, and caught fish in the Sol- 



GRKTNA GRKEN RKVISlTEjD. 93 

way, and worked at the loom, the last, and the toll- 
bar, but never wielded Vulcan's hammer. The 
popular term is thus a mystery, though a witness 
once explained, in a trial, to Brougham, that Gretna 
marriages were a welding of heat. Now the weld- 
ing of heat is part of a blacksmith's functions. 

It is not for Willum Ivang to censure the I^ang- 
holm millworkers, without whose patronage he 
would be as a priest superannuated, but if they 
could be got to remember whom they are married 
to, it would greatly relieve his mind. When stand- 
ing before him they are given to wabbling un- 
steadily on their feet, and to taking his inquiry 
whether the maiden on their right is goodly in 
their sight for an offer of another ''mutchkin :" 
and next morning they sometimes mistake some- 
body else's maiden for their own. When one of 
the youth of the neighborhood takes to him a help- 
mate at Springfield his friend often whiles away the 
time by courting another, and when they return to 
Langholm things are sometimes a littled mixed up. 
The priest, knowing what is expected of him, is 
generally able when appealed to, to ' ' assign to 
each bridegroom his own ; ' ' but one shudders to 
think what complications may arise when Willum' s 



94 GRHTNA GRKKN RBVISITKD. 

eyes and memory go. These weddings are, of 
course, as legal as though Lang were Archbishop 
of Canterbury, but the clergymen shake their 
heads, and sometimes — as indeed was the case even 
in the great days — -a second marriage by a minister 
is not thought amiss. 

About the year 1826, the high road to Scotland 
ran away from Springfield. Weeds soon afterwards 
sprouted in the street, and though the place's repu- 
tation died hard, its back had been broken. Run- 
aways skurried by oblivious of its existence, and at a 
convenient point on the new road shrewd John 
Linton dropped Gretna Hall. Springfield's con- 
venient situation had been its sole recommenda- 
tion, and when it lost that it was stranded. The 
first entry in the Langs' books dates back to 1771, 
when Joseph Paisley represented the priesthood, 
but the impetus to Gretna marriages had been 
given by the passing of Lord Hardwicke's act, a 
score of years before. Legend speaks of a Solway 
fisherman who taught tobacconist Paisley the busi- 
ness. Prior to 1754, when the law put its foot 
down on all unions not celebrated by ministers of 
the Church of England, there had been no need to 
resort to Scotland, for the chaplains of the fleet 



GRKTNA GREEN REVISITED. 95 

were anticipating the priest's of Gretna Green, and 
doing a roaring trade. Broadly speaking, it was 
as easy between tlie Reformation and 1745 to get 
married in the one country as in the other. The 
Marriage Act changed all that. It did a real injus- 
tice to non-members of the Established Church, 
and only cured the disease in one place to let it 
break out in another. Lord Hardwicke might 
have been a local member of Parliament, pushing 
a bill through the House ' ' for the promotion of Lar- 
ceny and Rowdyism at Gretna Green." For the 
greater part of a century, there was a whirling of 
coaches and a clattering of horses across the bor- 
der, after which came marriage in England before 
a registrar, and an amendment of the Scotch law 
that required residence north of the Sark, on the 
part of one of the parties, for twenty-one days 
before the ceremony took place. After that the 
romance of Gretna Green was as a tale that was told. 
The latter half of the last century, and the first 
twenty years of this, were thus the palmy days of 
Springfield, for after Gretna Hall hung out its 
signboard, the Langs were oftener seen at the '' big 
house" than in the double- windowed parlor of the 
Queen's Head. 



96 GRKTNA GREEN REVISITKD. 

The present landlord of this hostelry, a light- 
some host, troubled with corns, who passes much of 
his time with a knife in one hand and his big toe in 
the other, is nephew of that Beattie who saw his 
way to bed by the gleam of post-boy's lamps, and 
spent his days unsnibbing the Queen's Head door 
to let runaways in, and barring it to keep their 
pursuers out. Much depends on habit, and Beattie 
slept most soundly to the drone of the priest in his 
parlor, and the rub-a-dub of baffled parents on his 
window-sills. His nephew, also a Beattie, brings 
his knife with him into the immortal room, where 
peers of the realm have mated with country 
wenches, and fine ladies have promised to obey 
their father's stable-boys, and two lord chancellors 
of England with a hundred others have blossomed 
into husbands, and one wedding was celebrated of 
which neither Beattie nor the world takes any 
account. There are half a dozen tongues in the 
inn — itself a corpse now that wearily awaits inter- 
ment — to show you where Ivord Brskine gambolled 
in a tablecloth, while David lyang united him in 
the bonds of matrimony with his housekeeper, 
Sarah Buck. There is the table at which he com- 
posed some I^atin doggerel in honor of the event, 



GRETNA GRKKN REVISITKD. 97 

and the doubtful signature on a cracked pane of 
glass. A strange group they must have made — 
the gaping landlord at the door, Mrs. Buck, the 
superstitious, with all her children in her arms, 
David Lang rebuking the lord chancellor for pos- 
ing in the lady's bonnet, Erskine in his tablecloth 
skipping around the low-roofed room in answer, 
and Christina Johnstone, the female witness, think- 
ing sadly that his lordship might have known bet- 
ter. Here, too. Lord Eldon galloped one day with 
his "beloved Bessy;" and it is not iminteresting 
to note that though he came into the world eighteen 
months after Lord Erskine, he paid Gretna Green 
a business visit nearly fifty years before him. 
Lang's books are a veritable magic-lantern, and 
the Queen's Head the sheet on which he casts his 
figures. The slides change. Joseph Paisley sees 
his shrewd assistant, David Lang, marry his grand- 
daughter, and dies characteristically across the 
way. David has his day, and Simon, his son, suc- 
ceeds him ; and in the meantime many a memor- 
able figure glides shadow-like across the screen. 
The youth with his heart in his mouth is Lord 
George Lambton. It is an Earl of Westmoreland 

that plants his shoulders against the door, and tells 
7 



98 GRK'tNA GRKKN RKVISITKD. 

the priest to hurry. The foot that drums on the 
floor is Lady Alicia Parson's. A son of Lord Chief 
Justice Ellenborough makes way for his own son ; a 
daughter follows in the;very footsteps of her father, 
only a few hours between them. A daughter of 
Archdeacon Philpot arrives at four o'clock in the 
morning, and her companion forgets to grease the 
landlord's hand. The Hon. Charles Law just 
misses Lord Deerhurst. There are ghosts in 
cocked hats, and naval and military uniform, in 
muslin, broadcloth, tweed and velvet, gold lace 
and pigskin ; swords flash, pistols smoke, steaming 
horses bear bleeding riders out of sight, and a 
thousand forms flit weird and shadowy through the 
stifling room. 

The dinner of the only surviving priest of Gretna 
Hall frizzled under the deft knife of his spouse as 
he rubbed his hands recently over the reminiscences 
of his youth. Willum Lang never officiated at the 
Hall. Intelligent Jardine, full of years and honors, 
now enjoys his ease, not without a priestly dignity, 
on a kitchen sofa, in his pocket edition of a home 
at Springfield, and it is perhaps out of respect to 
his visitor that he crowns his hoary head with a 
still whiter liat. His arms outstretched to the fire, 



GRETNA GREEN REVISITED. 99 

he looks, by the flashes of light, in his ingle-nook a 
Shakespearian spirit crouching over an unholy pot, 
but his genial laugh betrays him, and his comely 
wife does not scruple to recall him to himself when 
he threatens to go oflf in an eternal chuckle. A 
stalwart border- woman she, in short petticoats and 
delightful cap, such as in the killing times of the 
past bred the Johnny Armstrongs and the terrible 
moss-troopers of the border. A storehouse of old 
ballads, and a Scotchwoman after Scott's own 
heart. 

The day that Gretna Hall became an inn, its 
landlord felt himself called to the priesthood, and 
as long as he and his son remained above ground, 
marriage was the heaviest item in their bills. But 
when Gretna knew them no more, Jardine's chance 
had come. Even at Springfield the line has always 
been drawn at female priests, and from the *'big 
house" used to come frequent messages to the 
shoemaker with its mistress's compliments and 
would he step up at once. The old gentleman is a 
bit of a dandy in his way, and it is pleasant to know 
that Nature herself gave him on those occasions a 
hint when it v/as time to dress. The rush for him 
down dark fields and across the Headless Cross was 



lOO GRKTNA GREBN RKVISlTlSD. 

in a flurry of haste, but in the still night the rum- 
ble of a distant coach had been borne to him over 
the howes and meadows, and Jardine ' knew what 
that meant as well as the marriage service. Some- 
times the coaches came round by Springfield, when 
the hall was full, and there was a tumbling out and 
in again by trembling runaways at the rival inns. 
Even the taverns have run couples, and up and 
down the sleety street horses pranced and panted 
in search of an idle priest. Jardine remembers 
one such nightmare time when the clatter of a 
pursuing vehicle came nearer and nearer, and a 
sweet young lady in the Queen's Head flung up 
her hands to heaven. Crash went her true lovers' 
fist through a pane of glass to awaken the street 
(which always slept with one eye open) with the 
hoarse wail, *' A hundred pounds to the man that 
marries me ! " But big as was the bribe, the speed 
of the pursuers was greater, and the maiden's father 
looking in at the inn at an inconvenient mom^ent 
called her away to fulfill another engagement. The 
Solway lies white from Gretna Hall like a sheet of 
mourning paper, between edges of black trees 
and hills. The famous long, low room still looks 
out on an ageing park, but they are only ghosts 



GRKTNA GRKKN RKVISITHD. 101 

tliat join hands in it now, and it is a cling- 
ing to old days that makes the curious moon peep 
beneath the blind. The priest and the unbidden 
witness still are, but brides and bridegrooms come 
no more. To the days of his youth Jardine had to 
fling back his memory to recall the gravel spring- 
ing from the wheels of Wakefield's flying chariot. 
The story is told in Hutchinson's Chronicles of 
Gretna Green^ the first volume of which leads 
up to but does not broach the subject, and is 
common property at Springfield. The advent- 
urer's dupe was an affectionate school-girl on 
whose feelings he worked by representing himself 
as the one friend who could save her father from 
ruin and disgrace. The supposed bankrupt was 
said to have taken flight to Scotland, and the 
girl of fifteen, jumping into Wakefield's coach at 
Liverpool, started with him in pursuit. A more 
graceless rascal never was, for at Carlisle the 
adventurer swore that he had talked with Miss 
Turner's father in an hotel where he was 
lying hidden from the sheriff"' s officers, and that 
the fugitive's wish was that .she should, with- 
out delay, accept Mr. Wakefield's hand. The 
poor lassie, frantic with anxiety, was completely 



I02 GRE'TNA GREl^N RKVISI1*SD. 

gulled, and on the eighth of March, 1826, Wake- 
field's coach drew up at Gretna Hall. Too 
late came the pursuit to stop the marriage, but the 
runaways were traced to France, and the law soon 
had the husband of a week by the heels. He had 
trusted, like all his brotherhood, to the lady's 
father making the best of it; and so, perhaps, he 
did; for the adventurer's address for the next three 
years was — Newgate, lyondon. 

Spiders of both sexes kept their nets at 
Gretna Green, but a tragedy was only enacted at 
the hall between a score of comedies; and they 
were generally love-sick youths and maidens who 
interrupted the priest to ask if that was not the 
* 'so — sound of wli — wheels on the gravel walk?' ' A 
couple whom it would almost have been a satisfac- 
tion to marry without a fee (for the mere example 
of the thing) was that which raced from the south 
of England with the lady's father. When they 
reached the top of a hill his arms were gesticulat- 
ing at the bottom, and they never turned one cor- 
ner without seeing his steaming horse take another. 
Poor was the fond lover (dark his prospects at Gretna 
Green in consequence) but brave the maid, to whom 
her friends would insist on leaving money, which 



GRKTNA GR^KN RK VISITED. 103 

was the cause of the whole to-do. The father, look- 
ing on the swain with suspicious eye, took to dream- 
ing of postillions, high-roads, blacksmiths and 
Gretna Green. He would not suffer his daughter to 
move from his sight, and even to dances he escorted 
her in his private carriage, returning for her (for he 
was a busy man) at night. Quick of invention 
were the infuriated lovers. Threading the mazes 
of a dance, the girl was one evening snatched from 
her partner's arms by the announcement that her 
father's carriage barred the way below. A hurried 
explanation of why he had come so soon, a tripping 
down the stairs with trembling limbs into a close 
coach, a maiden in white in her lover's arms, and 
hey-ho for Gretna Green. Jardine is mellowed 
with a gentle cynicism, and sometimes he breaks 
off in his reminiscences to wonder what people 
want to be married for. The Springfield priest, 
he chuckles, is a blacksmith at whom love cannot 
afford to laugh. Ay, friend Jardine, but what 
about the blacksmith who laughs at love ? 

Half a century ago Mr. McDiarmid, a Scotch 
journalist of repute, loosened the tongue of a 
Springfield priest with a bowl of toddy. The 
result was as if the sluice had been lifted bodily 



I04 GRKTNA GRE:KN RKVISI'TKD. 

from a dam, and stories (like tlie whisky) flowed 
like water. One over-curious paterfamilias there 
was who excused his visit to the village of wed- 
dings on the ground that he wished to introduce 
to the priest a daughter who might one day require 
his services. *' And sure enough," old Elliot, who 
entered into partnership with Simon I^ang, crowed 
to his toddy-ladle, ' ' I had her back with a younger 
man in the matter of three months!" There 
lives, too, in Springfield's memory the tale of the 
father who bolted with an elderly spinster, and 
returning to England passed his daughter and her 
lover on the way. Dark and wintry was the night, 
the two coaches rattled by, and next morning four 
persons who had gone wrong opened the eyes of 
astonishment. 

When David I^angwas asked during Wakefield's 
trial how much he had been paid for discharging 
the duties of priest, he replied pleasantly, *'^20 
or ^30, or perhaps £\o ; I cannot say to a few 
pounds." This was pretty well, but there are 
authenticated cases in which ;^ioo was paid. The 
priests had no fixed fee, and charged according to 
circumstances. If business was slack and the 
bridegroom not pressing, they lowered their charges, 



GR:eTNA GR:^KN RKVISI'rE:D. I05 

but where the bribed post-boys told them of high 
rank, hot pursuit, and heavy purses, they squeezed 
their dupes remorselessly. It is told of Joseph 
Paisley that when on his death-bed he heard the 
familiar rumble of coaches into the village, he 
shook death from him, ordered the runaways to 
approach his presence, married three couples from 
his bed, and gave up the ghost with three hundred 
pounds in his palsied hands. Beattie at the toll- 
bar, on the other hand, did not scorn silver fees, 
and as occasion warranted the priests have doubt- 
less ranged in their charges from half-a-crown 
and a glass of whisky to a hundred pounds. 

Though the toll-bar only at rare intervals got 
wealthy pairs into its clutches, Murray had not 
been long installed in office when pockets crammed 
with fees made him waddle as heavily as a duck. 
Fifty marriages a month was no uncommon occur- 
rence at Gretna at that time, and it was then that 
the mansion was built which still stands about a 
hundred yards on the English side of the Sark. 
The toll-keeper, to whom it owes its existence, 
erected it for a hotel that would rival Gretna Hall, 
and prove irresistible to the couples who, on getting 
married on the Scotch side, would have to pass it 



Io6 GRKTNA GRKKN RB VISITED. 

on their return journey. But the alterations in 
the Marriage Laws marred the newhotePs chances, 
and Murray found that he had over-reached him- 
self. Perhaps one reason why he no longer pros- 
pered was because he pursued a niggardly policy 
with the postillions, ostlers, and other rapscallions 
who demanded a share of the booty. The Liangs 
knew what they were about far too well to quarrel 
with the post-boys, and stories are still current in 
Spricgfield of these faithful youths tumbling their 
employers into the road rather than take them to 
a ' ' blacksmith ' ' with whom they did not deal. 

There is no hope for Gretna. Springfield was 
and is the great glory of its inhabitants. Here 
ran the great wall of Adrian, the scene of many a 
tough fight in the days of stone weapons and skin- 
clad Picts. The Debatable lyand, sung by Trou- 
vere and Troubadour, is to-day but a sodden moss, 
in which no King Arthur strides fearfully away 
from the **grim lady" of the bogs; and moss- 
troopers, grim and gaunt and terrible, no longer 
whirl with lighted firebrands into England. With 
a thousand stars the placid moon lies long drawn 
out and drowned at the bottom of the Solway, 
without a lovesick maid to shed a tear ; the chariots 



GRETNA GREEN REWSITED. 107 

that once rattled and flashed along the now silent 
road were turned into firewood decades ago, and 
the runaways, from a Prince of Capua to a beggar- 
maid, are rotten and forgotten. 



MY FAVORITE AUTHORESS. 



MY FAVORITE AUTHORESS. 



JUST out of the four-mile radius — to give the 
cabby his chance — is a sleepy lane, lent by 
the countn' to the town, and we have only to 
open a little gate off it to find ourselves in an old- 
fashioned gardeiL The house, with its many quaint 
windows, across which evergreens spread their open 
fingers as a child makes believe to shroud hLs eyes, 
has a litersLTy look — at least, so it seems to me, but 
perhaps this is because I know the authoress who 
is at this moment advancing down the walk to meet 
me. 

She has hastily laid aside her hooj), and crosses 
the grass with the dignit>' that becomes a woman 
of letters. Her hair falls over her forehead in an 
attractive way, and she is just the prop>er height 
for an authoress. The face, so open that one can 
watch the process of thinking out a new novel in 
it, from start to finish, is at times a little careworn, 
as if it found the world weighty, but at present 
there is a gracious smile on it, and she greets me 



112 MY FAVORITE AUTHORESS. 

heartily with one hand, while the other strays to 
her neck, to make sure that her lace collar is lying 
nicely. It would be idle to pretend that she is 
much more than eight years old, ' ' but then Maurice 
is only six." 

lyike most literary people who put their friends 
into books, she is very modest, and it never seems 
to strike her that I would come all this way to see 
her. 

*' Mamma is out," she says simply, "but she 
will be back soon ; and papa is at a meeting, but 
he will be back soon, too. ' ' 

I know what meeting her papa is at. He is 
crazed with admiration for Stanley, and can speak 
of nothing but the Emin Relief Expedition. While 
he is away proposing that Stanley should get the 
freedom of Hampstead, now is my opportunity to 
interview the authoress. 

"Won't you come into the house ? " 

I accompany the authoress to the house, while 
we chat pleasantly on literary topics. 

" Oh, there is Maurice, silly boy ! " 

Maurice is too busy shooting arrows into the 
next garden to pay much attention to me ; and the 
authoress smiles at him good-naturedly. 



MY FAVORITE AUTHORESS. II3 

''I hope you'll stay to dinner," he says to me, 
*' because then we'll have tv/o kinds of pudding." 

The authorefis and I give each other a look which 
means that children will be children, and then we 
go indoors. 

"Are you not going to play any more?"' cries 
Maurice to the authoress. 

She blushes a little. 

" I was playing with him," she explains, "to 
keep him out of mischief till mamma comes 
back." 

In the drawing-room we talk for a time of ordin- 
ar}^ matters — of the allowances one mAist make for 
a child like IMaurice, for instance — and gradually 
we drift to the subject of literature. I know liter- 
ary people sufficiently well to be aware that they 
will talk freely — almost too freely — of their work 
if approached in the proper vSpirit. 

' ' Are you busy just now ? " I ask, with assumed 
carelessness, and as if I had not been preparing the 
question since I heard papa was out. 

She looks at me, suspiciously, as authors usually 
do when asked such a question. They are not 
certain whether you are really sympathetic. How- 
ever, vshe reads honesty in my eyes. 



114 MY FAVORITK AUTHORKSS. 

**0h, well, I am doing a little thing." (They 
always say this.) 

* ' A story or an article ? " 

*' A story.'' 

* ' I hope it will be good. ' ' 

** I don't know. I don't like it much." (This 
is another thing they say, and then they wait for 
you to express incredulity.) 

' ' I have no doubt it will be a fine thing. Have 
you given it a name ? ' ' 

' ' Oh, yes ; I always write the name. Some- 
times I don' t write any more. ' ' 

As she was in a confidential mood this seemed 
an excellent chance for getting her views on some 
of the vexed literary questions of the day. For 
instance, everybody seems to be more interested in 
hearing during what hours of the day an author 
writes than in reading his book. 

*' Do you work best in the early part of the day 
or at night ? " 

*' I write my stories just before tea." 

* ' That surprises me. Most writers, I have been 
told, get through a good deal of work in the 
morning. ' ' 

* ' Oh, but I go to school as soon as breakfast is 
over." 



MY FAVORITE AUTHORKSS. II5 

*' And you don't write at night? '' 

'*No ; nurse always turns tlie gas down.'* 

I had read somewhere that among the novelist's 
greatest difficulties is that of sustaining his own 
interest in a novel day by day until it is finished. 

' ' Until your new work is completed do you fling 
your whole heart and soul into it? I mean, do 
you work straight on at it, so to speak, until you 
have finished the last chapter? " 

*'0h, yes." 

The novelists were lately reproved in a review 
for working too quickl)^, and it was said that one 
wrote a whole novel in two months. 

*' How long does it take you to write a novel ? " 

*^ Do you mean a long novel ? " 

((Yes." 

" It takes me nearly an hour." 

* * For a really long novel ? ' ' 

* ' Yes, in three volumes. I write in three exer- 
cise-books — a volume in each. ' ' 

** You write very quickly." 

* ' Of course, a volume doesn' t fill a whole exer- 
cise-book. They are penny exercise-books. I 
have a great many three-volume stories in the 
three exercise-books, * * 



Il6 MY FAVORITE AUTHORKSS. 

*' But are they really three- volume novels?'' 

** Yes, for they are in chapters, and one of them 
has twenty chapters." 

*' And how many chapters are there in a page ? " 

* * Not very many. ' ' 

Some authors admit that they take their charac- 
ters from real life, while others declare that they 
draw entirely upon their imagination. 

*' Do you put real people into your novels? " 

**Yes, Maurice and other people, but generally 
Maurice.'' 

**I have heard that some people are angry with 
authors for putting them into books. ' ' 

"Sometimes Maurice is angry, but I can't 
always make him an engine-driver, can I ? " 

*'No. I think it is quite unreasonable on his 
part to expect it. I suppose he likes to be made 
an engine-driver ? " 

' ' He is to be an engine-driver when he grows 
up, he says. He is a silly boy, but I love him. ' ' 

* ' What else do you make him in your books ? ' ' 

** To-day I made him like Stanley, because I 
think that is what papa would like him to be ; and 
yesterday he was papa, and I was his coachman." 

**He would like that?" 



MY FAVORITK AUTHORESS. II7 

**No, he wanted me to be papa and him the 
coachman. Sometimes I make him a pirate, and 
he likes that, and once I made him a girl. ' * 

*' He would be proud ?'^ 

* ' That was the day he hit me. He is awfully 
angry if I make him a girl, silly boy. Of course 
he doesn't understand.'' 

** Obviously not. But did you not punish him 
for being so cruel as to hit you ? ' ' 

** Yes, I turned him into a cat, but he said he 
would rather be a cat than a girl. You see he's 
not much more than a baby — though I was writing 
books at his age. ' ' 

**Were you ever charged with plagiarism? I 
mean with copying your books out of other people's 
books." 

^* Yes, often." 

** I suppose that is the fate of all authors. I am 
told that literary people write best in an old 
coat ." 

**0h, I like to be nicely dressed when I am 
writing. Here is papa, and I do believe he has 
another portrait of Stanley in his hand. Mamma 
will be so annoyed. ' ' 



THE CAPTAIN OF THE 
SCHOOL 



THE 

CAPTAIN OF THE SCHOOL. 



When Peterkin, who is twelve, wrote to us] that 
there was a possibility ( " but donH count on it,'* 
he said) of his bringing the captain of the school 
home with him for a holiday, we had little con- 
ception what it meant. The captain we only 
knew by report as the * ' man ' ' who lifted leg-balls 
over the pavilion and was said to have made a joke 
to the head-master's wife. By-and-by we under- 
stood the distinction that was to be conferred on us. 
Peterkin instructed his mother to send the captain 
a formal invitation addressed **J. Rawlins, Esq." 
This was done, but in such a way that Peterkin 
feared we might lose our distinguished visitor. 
** You shouldn't have asked him for all the holi- 
days," Peterkin wrote, ** as he has promised a 
heap of fellows." Then came a condescending 
note from the captain, saying that if he could 
manage it he would give us a few days. In this 
letter he referred to Peterkin as his young friend. 
Peterkin wrote shortly afterwards asking his sister 

m 



122 'THK captain of "tun SCHOOt. 

Grizel to send him her photograph. ' ' If you 
haven't one," he added, "what is the color of 
your eyes?" Grizel is eighteen, which is also, I 
believe, the age of J. Rawlins. We concluded 
that the captain had been sounding Peterkin about 
the attractions that our home could offer him ; but 
Grizel neither sent her brother a photograph nor 
any account of her personal appearance. ' ' It 
doesn't matter, ' ' Peterkin wrote back ; "I told him 
you were dark. ' ' Grizel is rather fair, but Peter- 
kin had not noticed that. 

Up to the very last he was in an agony lest the 
captain should disappoint him. '* Don't tell any- 
body he is coming," he advised us, "for, of course, 
there is no saying what may turn up." Never- 
theless the captain came and we sent the dog-cart 
to the station to meet him and Peterkin. On all 
previous occasions one of us had gone to the sta- 
tion with the cart ; but Peterkin wrote asking us 
not to do so this time. " Rawlins hates any fuss," 
he said. 

Somewhat to our relief, we found the captain 
more modest than it would have been reasonable 
to expect. "This is Rawlins," was Peterkin' s 
simple introduction ; but it could not have been 



THK CAPTAIN OF THE SCHOOI.. 1 23 

done with more pride iiad the guest been Mr. W. 
G. Grace himself. One thing I liked in Rawlins 
from the first : his consideration for others. When 
Peterkin's mother and sister embraced that boy on 
the doorstep, Rawlins pretended not to see. Peter- 
kin frowned, however, at this show of affection, 
and with a red face looked at the captain to see 
how he took it. With much good taste, Peterkin 
said nothing about this " fuss '^ on the doorstep, 
and I concluded that he would let it slide. It has 
so far been a characteristic of that boy that he can 
let anything which is disagreeable escape his mem- 
ory. This time, however, as I subsequently learned 
he had only bottled up his wrath to pour it out 
upon his sister. Finding her alone in the course 
of the day, he opened his mind by remarking that 
this was a nice sort of thing she had done, making 
a fool of him before another fellow. Asked boldly 
— for Grizel can be freezing on occasion not only 
to her own brother, but to other people's brothers 
— what he meant, Peterkin inquired hotly if she 
was going to pretend that she had not kissed him in 
Rawlins' presence. Grizel replied that if Rawlins 
thought anything of that he was a nasty boy ; at 
which Peterkin echoed ''boy " with a grim laugh, 



124 THK CAPTAIN OF THK SCHOOIy. 

and said lie only hoped she would see the captain 
some day when the ground suited his style of bowl- 
ing. Grizel replied contemptuously that the time 
would come when both Peterkin and his disagree- 
able friend would be glad to be kissed ; upon which 
her brother flung out of the room, warmly protest- 
ing that she had no right to bring such charges 
against fellows. 

Though Grizel was thus a little prejudiced 
against the captain, he had not been a day in the 
house when we began to feel the honor that his 
visit conferred on us. He was modest almost to 
the verge of shyness ; but it was the modesty that is 
worn by a man who knows he can afford it. While 
Peterkin was there Rawlins had no need to boast, 
for Peterkin did the boasting for him. When, 
however, the captain exerted himself to talk, Peter- 
kin was contented to retire into the shade and 
gaze at him. He would look at all of us from his 
seat in the background, and note how Rawlins was 
striking us. Peterkin' s face as he gazed upon that 
of the captain went far beyond the rapture of a 
lover singing to his mistress's eyebrow. He fetched 
and carried for him, anticipated his wants as if 
Rawlins were an invalid, and bore his rebukes 



TH^ CAPTAIN OF THK SCHOOI.. 125 

meekly. When Rawlins thouglit that Peterkin was 
speaking too much, he had merely to tell him to 
shut up, when Peterkin instantly collapsed. We 
noticed one great change in Peterkin. Formerly, 
when he came home for the holidays he had 
strongly objected to making what he called draw- 
ing-room calls, but all that was changed. Now 
he went from house to house, showing the captain 
off. ''This is Rawlins," remained his favorite 
form of introduction. He is a boy who can never 
feel comfortable in a drawing-room, and so the 
visits were generally of short duration. They had 
to go because they were due in another house in 
a quarter of an hour, or he had promised to let 
Jemmy Clinker, who is our local cobbler and a 
great cricketer, see Rawlins. When a lady en- 
gaged the captain in conversation, Peterkin did 
not scruple to sign to her not to bother him too 
much ; and if they were asked to call again, Peter- 
kin said he couldn't promise. There was a re- 
markable thing the captain could do to a walking 
stick, which Peterkin wanted him to do every- 
where. It consisted in lying flat on the floor and 
then raising yourself in an extraordinary way by 
means of the stick. I believe it is a very difiicult 



126 THK CAPTAIN OF Th:^ SCHOOI.. 

feat, and the only time I saw our guest prevailed 
upon to perform it lie looked rather apoplectic. 
Sometimes lie would not do it, apparently because 
he was not certain whether it was a dignified pro- 
ceeding. He found it very hard, nevertheless, to 
resist the temptation, and it was the glory of Peter- 
kin to see him yield to it. From certain noises 
heard in Peterkin's bedroom it is believed that he 
is practicing the feat himself. 

Peterkin, you must be told, is an affectionate 
boy, and almost demonstrative to his relatives if 
no one is looking. He was consequently very 
anxious to know what the captain thought of us 
all, and brought us our testimonials as proudly as 
if they were medals awarded for saving life at sea. 
It is pleasant to me to know that I am the kind of 
governor Rawlins would have liked himself, had 
he required one. Peterkin's mother, however, is 
the captain's favorite. She pretended to take the 
young man's preference as a joke when her son in- 
formed her of it, but in reality I am sure she felt 
greatly relieved. If Rawlins had objected to us it 
would have put Peterkin in a very awkward po- 
sition. As for Grizel, the captain thinks her a 
very nice little girl, but ' ' for choice, ' ' he says 



THK CAPTAIN OF THE) SCHOOI.. 1 27 

(according to Peterkin) '*give him a bigger 
woman." Grizel was greatly annoyed when he 
told her this, which much surprised him, for he 
thought it quite as much as she had any right to 
expect. On the whole, we were perhaps rather 
glad when Rawlins left, for it was somewhat try- 
ing to live up to him. Peterkin' s mother, too, has 
discovered that her boy has become round-shoul- 
dered. It is believed that this is tlie result of a 
habit he acquired when in Rawlins's company of 
leaning forward to catch what people were saying 
about the captain. 



THOUGHTFUL BOYS MAKE 
THOUGHTFUL MEN. 



THOUGHTFUL BOYS MAKE 
THOUGHTFUL MEN. 



URQUHART is a boy who lives in fear that his 
friends and relations will send him the 
wrong birthday presents. Before his birthday 
came round this year, he dropped them pretty 
broad hints as to the kind of gift he would prefer, 
supposing they meant to remember the occasion. 
He worked his people differently, according to the 
relationship that existed between him and them. 
Thus to his mother he simply wrote, ' ' A fishing- 
rod is what I want ; ' ' but to an uncle, from whom 
there was only the possibility of the present, he said, 
* ' By the way, next Monday week is my birthday, 
and my mother is going to send me a fishing-rod. 
Wouldn't it be jolly rot if any other body sent me a 
fishing-rod? — Your affectionate and studious nephew, 
Thomas Urquhart. " To an elderly lady, with whom 
he had once spent part of his summer holiday, he 
wrote, * ' By-the-bye' ' (he always cam6 to the point 

181 



132 THOUGHTFUIy BOYS 

with by-the-bye), * * next Monday week is my birth- 
day. I am wondering if anybody will send me a 
cake like the ones you bake so beautifully. ' ' 

That lady should, of course, figuratively have 
punched Urquhart's head, but his communication 
charmed her. She did not, however, send him a 
cake. He had a letter from her in a few days, in 
which, without referring to his insinuating remarks 
about his birthday and her cakes, she expressed 
a hope that he was working hard. Urquhart 
thought this very promising, and sent a reply that 
undid him. *' I am sweating,'' he said, '' no end ; 
and I think there is no pleasure like perusing 
books. When the other chaps go away to play, I 
stay at the school and peruse books.'' After that 
Urquhart counted the old lady among his certain- 
ties, and so she was, after a manner. On his birth- 
day he received a gift from her, and also a letter, 
in which she said that her original intention had 
been to send him a cake. ** But your nice letter," 
she went on, ' ' in which you say you are fond of 
reading, reminds me that you are getting to be a 
big boy, so I send you a book instead," Urquhart 
anxiously undid the brown paper in which the 
book was wrapped. It was a volume of mild 



biographies, entitled, * ' Thouglitful Boys Make 
Thoughtful Men." 

From its first appearance among us, this book 
caused a certain amount of ill-feeling. I learned 
by accident that Urquhart, on the strength of the 
lady's letter, had stated for a fact to his comrades 
that she was going to send him a cake. He had 
also taken Fleming Secundus to a pastry-cook's in 
the vicinity of the school, and asked him to turn 
his eyes upon a cake which had the place of honor 
in the centre of the window. Secundus admitted 
with a sigh that it was a beauty. Without com- 
ment Urquhart led him to our local confec- 
tioner's, and pointed out another cake. Secundus 
again passed favorable criticism, the words he used, 
I have reason to believe, being " Oh, Crikey ! " By 
this time Urquhart had exhausted the shops of an 
interesting kind in our neighborhood, and he and 
his companion returned to the school. For a time 
Urquhart said nothing, but at last he broke the 
silence. "You saw yon two cakes?" he asked 
Secundus, who replied, with a smack of the lips, 
in the affirmative. "Then let me tell you," said 
Urquhart, solemnly, ^ ' that the two of them rolled 
together don't come within five miles of the cake 



134 THOUGHTFUI. BOYS 

I'm to get on my birthday." Tremendous news 
like this spreads through a school like smoke, and 
Urquhart was courted as he had never been 
before. One of the most pitiful cases of toadyism 
known to me was witnessed that very day in the 
foot-ball field. I was playing in a school match on 
the same side as Urquhart and a boy called Cocky 
Jones by his associates because of his sublime im- 
pertinence to his master. While Urquhart was 
playing his shoelace became loosened, and he 
stooped to tie it. "I say, Urquhart, ' ' cried Cocky, 
"let me do that for you ! " It will thus be seen, 
taking one thing with another, that Urquhart' s 
confidence in the old lady had raised high hopes. 
*'Is this the day Urquhart gets his cake?" the 
*' fellows " asked each other. Consider their indig- 
nation when he got, instead, ' ' Thoughtful Boys 
Make Thoughtful Men," Secundus refused to 
speak to him ; Williamson, Green, Robbins, Tosh 
and others scowled as if he had stolen their cake ; 
Cocky Jones kicked him and bolted. 

The boy who felt the disappointment most was, 
however, Urquhart himself. He has never been a 
shining light in his classes, but that day he 
stumbled over the I^atin grammar at every step. 



MAKK THOUGHTFUI. MEJN. 135 

From nine to ten he was quiet and sullen, like one 
felled by the blow. It is, I believe, notorious that 
in a fair fight Cocky Jones could not stand up before 
Urquhart for a moment ; yet, when Cocky kicked, 
Urquhart did not pursue him. Between ten and 
el-even, Urquhart had a cynical countenance, which 
implied that his faith in humanity v/as gone. By 
twelve he looked fierce, as if he meant to write his 
benefactress, and give her a piece of his mind. I 
saw him during the dinner-hour in hot controversy 
with Green and Tosh, who were evidently saying 
that he had deceived them. From this time he 
was pugnacious, like one determined to have it out 
with somebody, and as he can use his fists, this 
mood made his companions more respectful. Flem- 
ing Secundus is his particular chum, and after the 
first bitterness of disappointment, Secundus re- 
turned to his allegiance. He offered to mark 
Cocky Jones' face, I fancy, for I saw him in full 
pursuit of Cocky in the playground. Having 
made it up, he and Urquhart then discussed the 
matter calmly in a corner. They had several 
schemes before them. One was to send the book 
back, saying that Urquhart had already a copy of it. 
"But, I haven't," said Urquhart. 



136 THOUGHTFUI. BOYS 

^'Williamson lias read it, though, ^^ said Secun- 
dus, as if that was much the same thing. 

' ' But though we did send it back, ' ' Urquhart 
remonstrated, "the chances are that she would 
send me another book in its place. ' ' 

His faith, you see, had quite gone. 

" You could tell her you had got such a lot of 
books that you would prefer a cake for a 
change?" 

Urquhart said that would be putting it too 
plain. 

"Well, then,'' said Secundus, "even though 
she did send you another book, it would perhaps 
be a better one than that. Tell her to send ' The 
Boy Crusoes.' I haven't read it." 

* ' I have, though, ' ' said Urquhart. 

" Well, she could send ' The Prairie Hunters.' " 

"She's not the kind," said Urquhart. "It's 
always these improving books she buys .' ' 

Ultimately the two boys agreed upon a line of 
action which was hardly what the reader might 
expect. Urquhart wrote letters of thanks to all 
those who had remembered his birthday, and to 
the old lady the letter which passed through my 
hands read as follows : 



make; thoughtfui< mkn. 137 

" Dear Miss : 

I sit down to thank you very faithfully for 
your favor, namely, the book entitled ' Thoughtful 
Boys Make Thoughtful Men. ' It is a jolly book, 
and I like it no end better than a cake, which would 
soon be ate up, and then nothing to show for it. I 
am reading your beautiful present regular, and 
hoping it will make me a thoughtful boy so as I 
may be a thoughtful man, no more at present, 

I am. Dear Miss , 

Your very sincere friend, 

Thomas Urquhart.'* 

Our boys generally end up their letters in some 
such way as that, it being a method of making 
their epistles cover a little more paper. As I feared, 
Urquhart's letter was merely diplomatic. He had 
not come round to the opinion that after all a book 
was better than the cake, but he had seen the 
point of Fleming's sudden suggestion, that the best 
plan would be to "keep in " with his benefactress. 

Secundus had shown that if Miss M was 

bothered about this year's present, she would be 
less likely to send anything next year, and this 
sank into Urquhart's mind. Hence the tone of his 
letter of thanks. 



138 THOUGHTFUI, BOYS 

It remains to follow the inglorious career of this 
copy of ''Thoughtful Boys make Thoughtful 
Men/' First, Urquhart was openly contemptuous 
of it, and there seemed a probability of its only 
being used as a missile. Soon, however, he dropped 
hints that it was a deeply interesting story, follow- 
ing these hints up with the remark that he was 
open to offers. He and Fleming Secundus had 
quite a tiff about it, though they are again good 
friends. Secundus, it appears, had gone the length 
of saying that it was worth a shilling, and had 
taken it to his bed to make sure of this. Urquhart 
considered it as good as bought, but Secundus 
returned it to him next day. Examination of the 
book roused the suspicions of Urquhart, who 
charged Secundus with having read it by peeping 
between the pages, which, to enhance its commer- 
cial value, had remained uncut. This Secundus 
denied, but he had left the mark of his thumb on 
it. Eventually the book was purchased by Cocky 
Jones, but not without a row. Cocky went up to 
Urquhart one day and held out a shilling, saying 
that he would give it for ' ' Thoughtful Boys Make 
Thoughtful Men .' ' The owner wanted to take the 
shilling at once, and give up the book later in the 



MAKK THOUGHTFUIv MICN. 1 39 

day, but Cocky insisted on its being put into his 
bands immediately. Tbat Jones should be anxious 
to become the possessor of an improving book sur- 
prised Urquhartj but in his haste to make sure of 
the shilling, he handed over ^'Thoughtful Boys 
Make Thoughtful Men/' Within an hour of the 
striking of this bargain a rumor reached Urquhart's 
ears that Cocky had resold the work for one and 
sixpence. Inquiries were instituted, which led to 
a discovery. At our school there is a youth called 
Dicky Jenkinson, who, though not exactly a 
thoughtful boy, has occasional aspirations in that 
direction. Being for the moment wealthy, Jenkin- 
son had remarked, in the presence of Cocky, that 
one and sixpence would not be too much to give 
for Urquhart's copy of ''Thoughtful Boys Make 
Thoughtful Men." Feeling his way cautiously. 
Cocky asked whether he meant that the book 
would be cheap at one and sixpence to anybody 
who wanted it, or whether he (Dicky) was willing 
and able to expend that sum on it. Thus brought 
to bay, Jenkinson solemnly declared that he meant 
to make Urquhart an offer that very day. Cocky 
made off to think this matter over, for he was 
aware that the book had been already offered to 



140 THOUGH'TFtJI, BOYS 

Fleming Secundus for a shilling. He saw that by 
taking prompt action he might clear sixpence 
before bedtime. Unfortunately, he was not able 
to buy the book from Urquhart, for he was desti- 
tute of means, and he knew it would be mere folly 
to ask Urquhart for credit. In these painful cir- 
cumstances he took Robbins into his confidence. 
At first he merely asked Robbins to lend him a 
shilling, and Robbins merely replied that he would 
do no such thing. To show that the money would 
be returned promptly. Cocky then made a clean 
breast of it, after which Robbins was ready to lend 
him an ear. Robbins, however, stipulated that he 
should get half of the spoils. 

Cocky, as has been seen, got the book from 
Urquhart, but when it came to the point, Jenkin- 
son was reluctant to part with the one and six- 
pence. In this extremity Cocky appealed to 
Robbins, who at once got hold of Dicky and 
threatened to slaughter him if he did not keep to 
his bargain. Thus frightened, Jenkinson bought 
the book. 

On hearing of this, Urquhart considered that he 
had been swindled, and set off in quest of Cocky. 
That boy was not to be found, however, until his 



MARK THOUGHTFUI, M^N. I4I 

threepence had disappeared in tarts. I got to know 
of this afiair through Robbins' backing up of 
Cocky, and telling Urquhart that nobody was 
afraid of him. A ring was immediately formed 
round Urquhart and Robbins, which I had the 
pleasure of breaking up. 

Since I sat down to write the adventures of 
** Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men," I have 
looked through the book. Jenkinson read several 
chapters of it, and then offered it for next to 
nothing to anybody who had a fancy for being 
thoughtful. As no bidder was forthcoming, he in 
the end lost heart and presented it to the school 
library. A gentleman who visited us lately, and 
looked through the library, picked it up, and said 
that he was delighted to observe that the boys kept 
their books so clean. Yet not so long ago he was 
a boy at our school himself. 



IT. 



IT. 



AS they were my friends, I don't care to say 
how it came about that I had this strange 
and, I believe unique, experience. They con- 
sidered it a practical joke, though it nearly un- 
hinged my reason. Suffice it that last Wednesday, 
when I called on them at their new house, I was 
taken up stairs and shown into a large room with a 
pictorial wall paper. There was a pop-gun on the 
table and a horse with three legs on the floor. In 
a moment it flashed through my mind that I must 
be in a nursery. I started back, and then, with a 
sinking at the heart, I heard the key turn in the 
lock. From the corner came a strange uncanny 
moan. Slowly I forced my head round and looked, 
and a lump rose in my throat, and I realized that I 
was alone with It. 

I cannot say how long I stood there motionless. 
As soon as I came to myself I realized that my 
only chance was to keep quiet. I tried to think. 
The probability was that they were not far away, 

10 145 



146 IT. 

and if they heard nothing for a quarter of an hour 
or so they might open the door and let me out. So 
I stood still, with my eyes riveted on the thing 
where It lay. It did not cry out again, and I hoped 
against hope that It had not seen me. As I be- 
came accustomed to the room I heard It breathing 
quite like a human being. This reassured me to 
some extent, for I saw that It must be asleep. The 
question was — Might not the sleep be disturbed at 
any moment, and in that case, what should I do ? 
I remembered the story of the man who met a wild 
beast in the jungle and subjugated it by the power 
of the human eye. I thought I would try that. 
All the time I kept glaring at It's lair (for I could 
not distinguish itself), and the two things mixed 
themselves up in my mind till I thought I was try- 
ing the experiment at that moment. Next it struck 
me that the whole thing was perhaps a mistake. 
The servant had merely shown me into the wrong 
room. Yes ; but why had the door been locked ? 
After all, was I sure that it was locked ? I crept 
closer to the door, and with my eyes still fixed on 
the corner, put my hand gently — oh, so gently ! — 
on the handle. Softly I turned it round. I felt 
like a burglar. The door would not open. loosing 



IT. 147 

all self-control, I shook it ; and tlien again came 
that unnatural cry. I stood as if turned to stone, 
still clutching the door handle, lest It should 
squeak if I let It go. Then I listened for the 
breathing. In a few moments I heard It. Before 
It had horrified me ; now It was like sweet music, 
and I resumed breathing myself I kept close to 
the wall, ready for anything ; and then I had a 
strange notion. As It was asleep, why should I 
not creep forward and have a look at It ? I yielded 
to this impulse. 

Of course I had often seen Them before, but 
always with some responsible person present, and 
never such a young one. I thought It would be 
done up in clothes, but no, It lay loose, and with- 
out much on. I saw Its hands and arms, and it 
had hair. It was sound asleep to all appearances, 
but there was a queer smile upon Its face that I did 
not like. It crossed my mind that It might be 
only shamming, so I looked away and then turned 
sharply around to catch It. The smile was still 
there, but It moved one of Its hands in a suspicious 
way. The more I looked the more uncomfortable 
did that smile make me. There was something 
saturnine about It, and It kept it up too long. I 



148 rr. 

felt in my pocket hurriedly for my watch, in case 
It should wake ; but, with my usual ill-luck, I had 
left it at the watchmaker's. If It had been older I 
should not have minded so much, for I would have 
kept on asking what Its name was. But this was 
such a very young one that It could not even have 
a name yet. Presently I began to feel that It was 
lying too quietly. It is not Their nature to be 
quiet for any length of time, and, for aught I knew, 
this one might be ill. I believe I should have felt 
relieved if It had cried out again. After thinking 
it over for some time I touched It to see if It would 
move. It drew up one leg and pushed out a 
hand. Then I bit my lips at my folly, for there 
was no saying what It might do next. I got be- 
hind the curtain, and watched It anxiously through 
a chink. Except that the smile became wickeder 
than ever, nothing happened. I was wondering 
whether I should not risk pinching It, so as to 
make it scream and bring somebody, when I heard 
an awful sound. Though I am only twenty, I have 
had considerable experience of life, and I can 
safely say that I never heard such a chuckle. It 
had wakened up and was laughing. 

I gazed at It from behind the curtain ; Its eyes 



ITf. 149 

were wide open, and you could see quite well that 
It was reflecting what It ought to do next. As long 
as It did not come out I felt safe, for It could not 
see me. Something funny seemed to strike It, and 
It laughed heartily. After a time It tried to sit up. 
Fortunately Its head was so heavy that It always 
lost its balance just as It seemed on the point of 
succeeding. When It saw that It could not rise. It 
reflected again, and then all of a sudden It put Its 
fist into Its mouth. I gazed in horror ; soon only 
the wrist was to be seen, and I saw that It would 
choke in another minute. Just for a second I 
thought that I would let It do as It liked. Then I 
cried out, '* Don't do that!" and came out from 
behind the curtain. Slowly It nuoved Its fist and 
there we were, looking at each other. 

I retreated to the door, but It followed me with 
Its eyes. It had not had time to scream yet, and I 
glared at It to imply that I would stand no non- 
sense. But, difficult though this may be to be- 
lieve. It didn't scream when It had the chance. 
It chuckled instead and made signs for me to come 
nearer. This was even more alarming than my 
worst fears. I shook my head and then my fist at 
It, but It only laughed the more. In the end I got 



I50 11^. 

so fearful tliat I went down on my nands and knees, 
to get out of Its sight. Then It began to scream. 
However, I did not get up. When they opened 
the door they say I was beneath the table, and no 
wonder. But I certainly was astonished to dis- 
cover that I had only been alone with It for seven 
minutes. 



TO THE INFLUENZA. 



TO THE INFLUENZA. 



THE time lias come for you to leave this house. 
Seventeen days ago you foisted yourself upon 
me, and since then we have been together night 
and day. You were unwelcome and uninvited, 
and you made yourself intensely disagreeable. 
We wrestled, you and I, but you attacked me 
unawares in the back, and you threw me. Then, 
like the ungenerous foe that you are, you struck 
me while I was down. However, your designs 
have failed. I struggle to ni}^ feet and order you 
to withdraw. Nay, withdraw is too polite a word. 
Your cab is at the door ; get out. But, stop, a 
word with you before you go. 

Most of your hosts, I fancy, run you out of their 
houses without first saying what they think of you. 
Their one desire is to be rid of you. Perhaps they 
are afraid to denounce you to your face. I want, 
however, to tell you that I have been looking 
forward to this moment ever since you put me to 
bed. I said little while I was there, but I thought 



153 



154 "^O TH^ INFlyU^NZA. 

a good deal, and most of my thoughts were oi you. 
You fancied yourself invisible, but I saw you glar- 
ing at me, and I clenched my fists beneath the 
blankets. I could paint your portrait. You are 
very tall and stout, with a black beard, and a cruel, 
unsteady eye, and you have a way of crackling 
your fingers while you exult in your power. I used 
to lie watching you as you lolled in my cane-chair. 
At first it was empty, but I felt that you were in it, 
and gradually you took shape. I could hear your 
fingers crackling, and the chair creak as you moved 
in it. If I sat up in fear, you disappeared, but as 
soon as I lay back, there you were again. I know 
now that in a sense you were a creature of my 
imagination. I have discovered something more. 
I know why you seemed tall and stout and bearded, 
and why I heard your fingers crackling. 

Fever — one of your dastard weapons — was no 
doubt what set me drawing portraits, but why did 
I see you a big man with a black beard ? Because 
long ago, when the world was young, I had a 
schoolmaster of that appearance. He crackled his 
fingers too. I had forgotten him utterly. He had 
gone from me with the love of climbing for crows' 
nests — which I once thouo:ht would never die — but 



TO the; infi^uknza. 155 

during some of these seventeen days of thirty -six 
hours each I suppose I have been a boy again. 
Yet I had many schoolmasters, all sure at first that 
they could make something of me, all doleful when 
they found that I had conscientious scruples against 
learning. Why do I merge you into him of the 
crackling fingers? I know. It is because in 
mediaeval times I hated him as I hate you. No 
others have I loathed with any intensity, but he 
alone of my masters refused to be reconciled to my 
favorite method of study, which consisted, I remem- 
ber (without shame) in glancing at my tasks, as I 
hopped and skipped to school. Sometimes I hopped 
and skipped, but did not arrive at school in time 
to take solid part in lessons, and this grieved 
the soul of him who wanted to be my instructor. 
So we differed, as Gladstonian and Conservative on 
the result of the Parnell Commission, and my 
teacher, be ingin office, troubled me not a little. I 
confess I hated him, and while I sat glumly in his 
room, whence the better boys had retired, much 
solace I found in wondering how I would slay him, 
supposing I had a loaded pistol, a sword, and a 
hatchet, and he had only one life. I schemed to 
be a dark, rnorose pirate of fourteen, so that I 



156 TO THB INFIvUENZA. 

might capture him, even at his black-board, and 
make him walk the plank. I was Judge Lynch, 
and he was the man at the end of the rope. I 
charged upon him on horseback, and cut him down. 
I challenged him to single combat, and then I was 
Ivanhoe. I even found pleasure in conceiving 
myself shouting ' ' Crackle-fingers ' ' after him, and 
then bolting round a comer. You must see now 
why I pictured you heavy, and dark, and bearded. 
You are the schoolmaster of my later years. I lay 
in bed and gloried in the thought that presently I 
would be up, and fall upon you like a body of 
cavalry. 

What did you think of my doctor? You need 
not answer, for I know that you disliked him. 
You and I were foes, and I was getting the worst 
of it when he walked in and separated the com- 
batants. His entrance was pleasant to me. He 
showed a contempt for you that perhaps he did not 
feel, and he used to take your chair. There were 
days when I wondered at his audacity in doing 
that, but I liked it, too, and by and by I may tell 
him why I often asked him to sit there. He was 
your doctor as well as mine, and every time he said 
that I was a little better, I knew he meant that you 



ro I^Hn INFI,UE;nzA. 157 

were a little weaker. You knew it, too, for I saw 
you scowling after lie had gone. My doctor is also 
my friend, and so, when I am well, I say things 
against him behind his back. Then I see his 
weaknesses and smile comfortably at them with his 
other friends — whom I also discuss with him. But 
while you had me down he was another man. He 
became, as it were, a foot taller, and I felt that he 
alone of men had anything to say that was worth 
listening to. Other friends came to look curiously 
at me and talk of politics, or Stanley, or on other 
frivolous topics, but he spoke of my case, which 
was the great affair. I was not, in my own mind, 
a patient for whom he was merely doing his best ; 
I was entirely in his hands. I was a business, and 
it rested with him whether I v/as to be wound up 
or carried on as usual. I daresay I tried to be 
pleasant to him — ^which is not my way — took his 
prescriptions as if I rather enjoyed them, and held 
his thermometer in my mouth as though it were a 
new kind of pipe. This was diplomacy. I have 
no real pleasure in being fed with a spoon, nor do 
I intend in the future to smoke thermometers. 
But I knew that I must pander to my doctor's 
weakness if he was to take my side against you. 



158 To Th^ infi^uknza. 

Now that I am able to snap my fingers at you I am 
looking forward to sneering once more at him. Just 
at this moment, however, I would prefer to lay a 
sword flat upon his shoulders, and say gratefully, 
*' Arise, Sir James." He has altered the faces of 
the various visitors who whispered to each other in 
my presence, and nodded at me and said aloud that 
I would soon be right again, and then said some- 
thing else on the other side of the door. He has 
opened my windows and set the sparrows a-chirping 
again, and he has turned on the sunshine. Lastly, 
he has enabled me to call your cab. I am done. 
Get out. 



FOUR-IN-HAND 
NOVELISTS. 



FOUR-IN-HAND NOVELISTS. 



THE following is a word-puzzle. It narrates 
the adventures of a four-in-hand novelist 
while trying to lose his reputation. Competitors 
do not require to be told that a four-in-hand 
novelist is a writer of fiction who keeps four 
serial tales running abreast in the magazines. The 
names of specimen four-in-hand novelists will recur 
readily to every one. The puzzle is to discover 
who this particular novelist is ; the description, as 
will be observed, answering to quite a number of 
them. 

;(: 9|( :)( :|< ;{: ^ 

A few years ago, if any one in Fleet street had 
said that the day would come when I would devote 
m}^ time to trying to lose my reputation, I would 
have smiled incredulously. That was before I had 
a reputation. To be as statistical as time will 
allow — for before I go to bed I have seven and a 
half yards of fiction to write — it took me fifteen 
years' hard work to acquire a reputation. For two 

II 161 



162 FOUR-IN-HAND NOVElvISTS. 

years after that I worked as diligently to retain it, 
not being quite certain whether it was really there, 
and for the last five years I have done my best to 
get rid of it. Mr. R. L. Stevenson has a story of 
a dynamiter who tried in vain to leave an infernal 
machine anywhere. It was always returned to him 
as soon as he dropped it, or just as he was making off. 
My reputation is as difficult to lose. I have not 
given up the attempt yet, but I am already of opin- 
ion that it is even harder to lose a reputation in 
letters than to make one. My colleagues will bear 
me out in this. 

If I recollect aright — for I have published so 
much that my works are now rather mixed up in 
my mind, and I have no time to verify anything — 
the first place I thought to leave my reputation in 
was a volume of pot-boilers, which I wrote many 
years ago for an obscure publication . At that time 
I was working hard for a reputation elsewhere, and 
these short stories were only scribbled ofif for a liveli- 
hood. My publisher heard of them recently, and 
offered me a hundred pounds for liberty to repub- 
lish them in book form . I pointed out to him that 
they were very poor stuff, but he said that that 
had nothing to do with it ; I had a reputation now, 



FOUR-IN-HAND NOVELISTS. 1 63 

and they would sell. With certain misgivings — 
for I was not hardened yet — I accepted my pub- 
lisher's terms, and the book was soon out. The 
first book I published, which was much the best 
thing I ever wrote, was only reviewed by three 
journals, of which two were provincial weeklies. 
They said it showed signs of haste, though every 
sentence in it was a labor. I sent copies of it to 
six or seven distinguished literary men — some of 
whom are four-in-hand now — and two of them ac- 
knowledged receipt of it, though neither said he 
had read it. My pot-boilers, however, had not 
been out many weeks before the first edition was 
exhausted. The book was reviewed everywhere, 
and, in nine cases out of ten, enthusiastically 
lauded. It showed a distinct advance on all my 
previous efforts. They were model stories of their 
kind. They showed a mature hand. The wit was 
sparkling. There were pages in the book that no 
one could read without emotion. In the old days 
I was paid for these stories at the rate of five shill- 
ings the thousand words ; but they would make a 
reputation in themselves now. It has been thus 
all along. I drop my reputation into every book I 
vmte now, but there is no getting rid of it. The 



164 FOUR-IN-HAND NOVELISTS. 

critics and the public return it to me, remarking 
that it grows bigger. 

I tried to lose my reputation in several other 
books of the same kind, and always with the same 
result. Barnacles are nothing to a literary reputa- 
tion. Then I tried driving four-in-hand. There 
are now only five or six of us who are four-in-hand 
novelists, but there are also four-in-hand essayists, 
four-in-hand critics, etc., and we all work on the 
same principle. Every one of us is trying to shake 
himself free of his reputation. We novelists have, 
perhaps, the best chance, for there are so few 
writers of fiction who have a reputation to lose that 
all the magazine editors come to us for a serial tale. 
Next year I expect to be six-in-hand, for the pro- 
vincial weeklies want me as well as the magazines. 
Any mere outsider would say I was safe to get rid 
of my reputation this year, for I am almost beating 
the record in the efibrt. A novelist of repute, who 
did not want to lose his reputation, would not 
think of writing more than one story at a time, and 
he would take twelve months, at least, to do it. 
That is not my way. Hitherto, though I have 
been a member of the literary four-in-hand club, I 
have always been some way ahead with at least 



FOUR-IN-HAND NOV^WSTS. 165 

two of my tales before they begin to appear in 
serial form. You may give up the attempt to lose 
your reputation, however, if you do not set about 
it more thoroughly than that ; and the four novels 
which I began in January in two English maga- 
zines, one American magazine, and an illustrated 
paper, were all commenced in the second week of 
December. (I had finished two novels in the last 
week of November.) My original plan was to take 
them day about, doing about four chapters of each 
a month ; but to give my reputation a still better 
chance of absconding, I now write them at any 
time. Now-a-days I v/ould never think of working 
out my plot beforehand. My thinking begins 
when I take up my pen to write, and ends when I 
lay it down, or even before that. In one of my 
stories this year I made my hero save the heroine 
from a burning house. Had I done that in the old 
days they would have ridiculed me, but now they 
say I reveal fresh talent in the delightful way in 
which I re-tell a story that has no doubt been told 
before. The beaten tracks, it is remarked, are the 
best to tread when the public has such a charming 
guide as myself. My second novel opens with a 
shipwreck, and I am nearly three chapters in getting 



l66 FOUR-IN.HAND NOVBWSI'S. 

my principal characters into the boats. In my 
first books I used to guard carefully against the in- 
troduction of material that did not advance the 
story, yet at that time I was charged with ' ' pad- 
ding." In this story of the shipwreck there is so 
much padding that I could blush — if I had not 
given all that up — to think of it. Instead of con- 
fining myself to my own characters, I describe all 
the passengers in the vessel — telling what they 
were like in appearance, and what was their 
occupation, and what they were doing there. 
Then, when the shipwreck comes, I drown them 
one by one. By one means or another, I contrive 
to get six chapters out of that shipwreck, which is 
followed by two chapters of agony in an open boat, 
which I treat as if it were a novelty in fiction, and 
that, again, leads up to a chapter on the uncertainty 
of life. Most flagrant padding of all is the con- 
versation. It always takes my characters at least 
two pages to say anything. They approach the 
point in this fashion : 

Tom walked excitedly into the room, in which 
Peter was awaiting him. The two men looked at 
each other. 

*' You wanted to see me," Tom said at last 



FOUR-IN-HAND NOVKI.ISTS. 167 

**Yes," said Peter slowly, "I wanted to see 
you." 

Tom looked at the other uneasily. 

*' Why did you want to see me ? " he asked after 
a pause. 

'^I shall tell you," replied Peter, pointing to a 
chair. 

Tom sat down, and seemed about to speak. But 
he changed his mind. Peter looked at him curi- 
ously. 

** Perhaps," Peter said at last, **you know my 
reasons for requesting an interview with you 
here?" 

'* I cannot say that I do," answered Tom. 

There was another pause, during which the 
ticking of the clock could be distinctly heard. 

** You have no idea?" inquired Peter. 

**I have no idea," replied Tom. 

"Do you remember," asked the older man, a 
little nervously, "that when old John Vansittart 
disappeared so suddenly from the Grange there 
were some persons who believed that he had been 
foully murdered ? " 

Tom passed his hand through his hair. "John 
Vansittart," he muttered to himself. 



1 68 FOUR-IN-HAND NOVi;i<ISTS. 

*'Tlie aflfair/* continued Peter, 
cleared up/* 

**It was never cleared up,*' said Tom. **But 
why," lie added, *' do you return to this subject? ** 

*'You may well ask," said Peter, **why I re- 
turn to it." 

And so on. There is so much of this kind of 
thing in my recent novels that if all the lines of it 
were placed on end I daresay they would reach 
round the world. Yet I am never charged with 
padding now. My writing is said to be beautifully 
lucid. My shipwreck has made several intelligent 
critics ask if I have ever been a sailor, though I 
don't mind saying here, that like Douglas Jerrold, 
I only dote upon the sea from the beach. I have 
been to Dover, but no further, and you will find 
my shipwreck told (more briefly) in Marryatt. I 
dashed it off less than two months ago, but for the 
life of me I could not say whether my ship was 
scuttled, or went on fire, or sprang a leak. Hence- 
forth I shall only refer to it as the shipwreck, 
and my memory will do all that is required of it if 
it prevents my mistaking the novel that contains 
the shipwreck. Even if I did that, however, I 
know from experience that my reputation would 



FOUR-IN-HAND NOVKI.ISTS. 169 

be as safe as the lives of my leading characters. I 
began my third novel, meaning to make my hero 
something of a coward, but though I worked him 
out after that patter for a time, I have changed my 
plan. He is to be peculiarly heroic henceforth. 
This will not lose me my reputation. It will be 
said of my hero that he is drawn with no ordinary 
skill, and that the author sees the two-sideness of 
every man's character. As for the fourth story, it 
is the second one over again, with the shipwreck 
omitted. One night when I did not have a chapter 
to write — a rare thing with me — I read over the first 
part of this fourth tale — another rare thing — and 
found it so slip-shod as to be ungrammatical . The 
second chapter is entirely taken up with a disquisi- 
tion on bald heads, but the humor of it will be 
said to increase my reputation. Sometimes when 
I become despondent of ever losing my reputation, I 
think of taking a whole year to write one novel in, 
just to see what I really could do. I wonder 
whether the indulgent public would notice any dif- 
ference ? Perhaps I could not write carefully now if 
I tried . The small section of the public that guesses 
which of the four-in-hand writers I am may think 
for a moment that this story of how I tried in vain 



170 FOUR-IN-HAND NOVKlylSTS. 

to lose my reputation will help me toward the goal. 
They are wrong, however. The public will stand 
anything from us now — or they would get some- 
thing better. 



RULES FOR CARVING. 



RULES FOR CARVING 



Rule I, — It is not good form to climb onto the table, 
Ttere is no doubt a great temptation to this. 
When you are struggling with a duck, and he 
wobbles over just as you think you have him, you 
forget yourself. The common plan is not to leap 
upon the table all at once. This is the more usual 
process : The carver begins to carve sitting. By- 
and-by he is on his feet, and his brow is contracted. 
His face approaches the fowl, as if he wanted to 
inquire within about everything except that the 
duck is reluctant to yield any of its portions. One 
of his feet climbs onto his chair, then the other. 
His knees are now resting against the table, and, 
in his excitement, he, so to speak, flings himself 
upon the fowl. This brings us to 

Rule II. — Carving should not be made a matter 
of brute force. It ought from the outset to be kept 
in mind that you and the duck are not pitted 
against each other in mortal combat. Never 
wrestle with any dish whatever ; in other words, 

173 



174 rul:^ on carving. 

keep your head, and if you find yourself becoming 
excited, stop and count a hundred. This will 
calm you, when you can begin again. 

Rule III. — It will not assist you to call the fowl 
names. This rule is most frequently broken by a 
gentleman carving for his own family circle. If 
there are other persons present, he generally 
manages to preserve a comparatively calm exterior, 
just as the felon on the scaffold does ; but in privacy 
he breaks out in a storm of invective. If of a 
sarcastic turn of mind, he says that he has seen 
many a duck in his day, but never a duck like this. 
It is double-jointed. It is so tough that it might 
have come over to England with the Conqueror. 

Rule IV. — DonH boast when it is all over. You 
must not call the attention of the company to the 
fact that you have succeeded. Don't exclaim 
exultingly, *'I knew I would manage it," or "I 
never yet knew a duck that I couldn't conquer 
somehow." Don't exclaim in a loud gratified 
voice how you did it, nor demonstrate your way 
of doing it by pointing to the debris with the carv- 
ing knife. Don't even be mock-modest, and tell 
everybody that carving is the simplest thing in the 
world. Don't wipe your face repeatedly with your 



RULES ON CARVING. 1 75 

napkin, as if you were in a state of perspiration, 
nor talk excitedly, as if your success had gone to 
your head. Don't ask your neighbors what they 
think of your carving. Your great object is to 
convince them that you look upon carving as the 
merest bagatelle, as something that you do every 
day and rather enjoy. 



ON RUNNING AFTER 
A HAT. 



ON RUNNING AFTER A HAT. 

QNOMB don't run. They pretend to smile when 
^ they see their hat borne along on the breeze, 
and glance at the laughing faces around in a 
way implying, "Yes, it is funny, and I enjoy the 
joke, although the hat is mine. ' ' Nobody believes 
you, but if this does you good, you should do it. 
You don't attempt to catch your hat as it were on 
the wing. You walk after it, smiling, as if you 
liked the joke the more you think of it, and confi- 
dent that the hat will come to rest presently. You 
are not the sort of man to make a fuss over a hat. 
You won't give the hat the satisfaction of thinking 
that it can annoy you. Strange though it may 
seem, there are idiots who will join you in pursuit 
of the hat. One will hook it with a stick, and 
almost get it, only not quite. Another will manage 
to hit it hard with an umbrella. A third will get 
his foot into it ^or on it. This does not improve 
the hat, but it shows that there is a good deal of 
the milk of human kindness flowing in the street 

179 



l8o ON RUNNING AFT^R A HAT. 

as well as water, and is perhaps pleasant to think 
of afterwards. Several times you almost have the 
hat in your possession. It lies motionless, just 
where it has dropped after coming in contact with 
a hansom. Were you to make a sudden rush at it 
you could have it, but we have agreed that you are 
not that sort of man. You walk forward, stoop, 

and . One reads how the explorer thinks he 

has shot a buffalo dead, and advances to put his 
foot proudly on the carcass, how the buffalo then 
rises, and how the explorer then rises also. I have 
never seen an explorer running after his hat (though 
I should like to), but your experience is similar to 
his with the buffalo. As your hand approaches 
the hat, the latter turns over like a giant refreshed, 
and waddles out of your reach. Once more your 
hand is within an inch of it, when it makes off 
again. There are ringing cheers from the audience 
on the pavement, some of them meant for the hat, 
and the others as an encouragement to you. Before 
you get your hat you have begun to realize what 
deer-stalking is, and how important a factor is the 
wind. 



5iL77-l 



